12/17/09
Time wears on
wears down
precious hearts
souls move through
walls we've built
through waves so high
no ship could ever pass
thimbles on fingers
protected from needles
that could mend
the crests of reason
bringing the broken sea
level again
to feel the subtler rocks
and the gentler breezes
that were meant for
this plane of space
this moment of time
if we surrender to the gift
and release the ones
who dove down and left
and the ones who were ripped away
without any last words to say
the wisdom of the wounded
grows
messages from the otherworld
received
no place to hide
Time wears on
wears down
precious hearts
souls move through
walls we've built
through waves so high
no steamship could ever pass
thimbles on fingers
protected from needles
that could mend
the crests of reason
bringing the broken sea
level again
to feel the subtler rocks
and the gentler breezes
that were meant for
this plane of space
this moment of time
if we surrender to the gift
and release the ones
who dove down and left
and the ones who were ripped away
without any last words to say
the wisdom of the wounded
grows
messages from the otherworld
received
no place to hide
12/14/09
This ugly mirror of bites and
bleats heard from the deserted farm where
the shepherd used his sharpest shears
to cut out the pit in his stomach,
and the sheep he named
Worthless and Useless grew long matted coats
and drank each other's milk
spoiling the way for the rest of the herd,
so now the ugly mirror stares at him
with the seed in her bloody hand
and its eternal drips fill his glass
with all of the minerals from the ground that
it came from and all of the reflections
of the sky with it's forming clouds
into pairs of woolen socks
and floating birds on the surface of
his picture-show drink of earth from below
and fluids from the killing
he gazes down at the air from up there in the clear-
if the elements were not enough
to lift up his head from the patterns in the cup's sky
and find a good place for his own pit,
he might just see a trunk in her waist
some branches in her arms
some roots in her feet
some blossoms in her hair. -A
"The Disappearance"
This ugly mirror of bites and
bleats heard from the deserted farm where
the shepherd used his sharpest shears
to cut out the pit in his stomach,
and the sheep he named
Worthless and Useless grew long matted coats
and drank each other's milk
spoiling the way for the rest of the herd,
so now the ugly mirror stares at him
with the seed in her bloody hand
and its eternal drips fill his glass
with all of the minerals from the ground that
it came from and all of the reflections
of the sky with it's forming clouds
into pairs of woolen socks
and floating birds on the surface of
his picture-show drink of earth from below
and fluids from the killing
he gazes down at the air from up there in the clear-
if the elements were not enough
to lift up his head from the patterns in the cup's sky
and find a good place for his own pit,
he might just see a trunk in her waist
some branches in her arms
some roots in her feet
some blossoms in her hair.
12/06/09
"I'm mad!" the scientist never proclaims,
and "death! don't forget about death!"
the explorer never reminds,
even though the sheer glacier is
eleven miles long to it might be real
better sharpen the edges of skis to make
parallel tracks on hors pistes slopes
where not to rush but slide back into
the tired third eye's sun stroke absorbs
a splash of formaldehyde drops where
polished ultra-violet lenses
of the retractable pocket telescope
magnify strands of ice crystals to
inspect the geometry of flattened minutes
contracting like deep breaths in high altitude
and slipping into the crevice of biological mournings
where nature mirrors the mind's captivity
on the mountain of hidden clues,
one needs a polarized helmet,
a temper meter, and a peak filter
to melt the snowdrift six feet below.
"I'm mad!" the scientist never proclaims,
and "death! don't forget about death!"
the explorer never reminds,
even though the sheer glacier is
eleven miles long to it might be real
better sharpen the edges of skis to make
parallel tracks on hors pistes slopes
where not to rush but slide back into
the tired third eye's sun stroke absorbs
a splash of formaldehyde drops where
polished ultra-violet lenses
of the retractable pocket telescope
magnify strands of ice crystals to
inspect the geometry of flattened minutes
contracting like deep breaths in high altitude
and slipping into the crevice of biological mournings
where nature mirrors the mind's captivity
on the mountain of hidden clues,
one needs a polarized helmet,
a temper meter, and a peak filter
to melt the snowdrift six feet below.
12/05/09
an hypnotic sensation
when the quiet owl calls you
to push out
to push up
and get something back
that was not a wheeled toy
to pull around in the driveway
but a distant orb in a new sphere
pulling metallic gloves on
to swing light rods blazing
lines through the air
in liquid galaxies farther away
from earthly terrain your pretty ponies trod
in the red mud of a rhubarb pie
where fork hooves sink and stick
into a cinnamon whinny
leaving your head vibrating
and spinning for zero gravity
like the royal king with claws
like the black panther with a crown
batting his mouse around
with purring delight and growling terror
green eyes lit by his emerald heart
tongue slapping and salivating
messages his noisy stomach
cannot deny the stress lines
of a christmas aura patterns
underneath the smile of a thousand smiles
forever lips have corners
unless opened wide. -A
an hypnotic sensation
when the quiet owl calls you
to push out
to push up
and get something back
that was not a wheeled toy
to pull around in the driveway
but a distant orb in a new sphere
pulling metallic gloves on
to swing light rods blazing
lines through the air
in liquid galaxies farther away
from earthly terrain your pretty ponies trod
in the red mud of a rhubarb pie
where fork hooves sink and stick
into a cinnamon whinny
leaving your head vibrating
and spinning for zero gravity
like the royal king with claws
like the black panther with a crown
batting his mouse around
with purring delight and growling terror
green eyes lit by his emerald heart
tongue slapping and salivating
messages his noisy stomach
cannot deny the stress lines
of a christmas aura patterns
underneath the smile of a thousand smiles
forever lips have corners
unless opened wide.
11/30/09
True, I use you as my lighter fluid
for my wet wood
soaking in primary paint splatter
like you used me as your gasoline
to fill your word tank of photographic memories
develop, stop, fix-
you could call it inspiration, too,
instead of sucking and leaching,
I suppose, you can be my source, too,
you see, if you exist or not
in this reality
I wonder if you dare to keep feeding from
my cellar, the one last 1929 Bordeaux reserved
always for you in your nights spent away
like I linger on last spoonfuls
from your meringue pie served on a remote
Rousseau jungle platter hints of
pure extracts
vanilla and coco bean pining for
fingers running through lost paradise
when I see the frightful teeth glowing in
the rum punch the chimpanzee just downed
because the dollars were tasteless
and the jokes were all the same
it’s this blur of a crime
when the banana peels
are the soles of your feet
and I lost track of the thing called
reality when yours became mine
and mine became yours,
even when nature tells me everything,
I still pull the abstract string to my muse of all things.
True, I use you as my lighter fluid
for my wet wood
soaking in primary paint splatter
like you used me as your gasoline
to fill your word tank of photographic memories
develop, stop, fix-
you could call it inspiration, too,
instead of sucking and leaching,
I suppose, you can be my source, too,
you see, if you exist or not
in this reality
I wonder if you dare to keep feeding from
my cellar, the one last 1929 Bordeaux reserved
always for you in your nights spent away
like I linger on last spoonfuls
from your meringue pie served on a remote
Rousseau jungle platter hints of
pure extracts
vanilla and coco bean pining for
fingers running through lost paradise
when I see the frightful teeth glowing in
the rum punch the chimpanzee just downed
because the dollars were tasteless
and the jokes were all the same
it’s this blur of a crime
when the banana peels
are the soles of your feet
and I lost track of the thing called
reality when yours became mine
and mine became yours,
even when nature tells me everything,
I still pull the abstract string to my muse of all things.
11/26/09
tetrus games
that empty space
that everyone wants to fill
with quick fingers
on buttons and little flashing screens
like they think some jewel of a person
has it any better
like they’ve found something that
you haven’t
something they can
stuff inside
a cannoli or turkey
running around on the field of
pushing and shoving,
and I like it when it’s just me
and not them crowding
the tray I pull down
on the grey plane
with more things
to type on, send and receive
the rolls of scotch tape wrapped
around my wrists shoving seeds
from the harvest into my eyes
sending gong vibrations through my cells
calming the doubts I have but
will always have
until
I see him
the one who could fit my space
the space next to me
that doesn’t need
but just accepts
the snowfall of soul
falling mounds of white
that keep reminding me
there really are gems
that exist way down
underground
hidden where I just can’t see
don’t you see
no one knows
the silence of it all up here
no one knows except me
the proof I could find
no one sees the quiet
I see down there.
tetrus games
that empty space
that everyone wants to fill
with quick fingers
on buttons and little flashing screens
like they think some jewel of a person
has it any better
like they’ve found something that
you haven’t
something they can
stuff inside
a cannoli or turkey
running around on the field of
pushing and shoving,
and I like it when it’s just me
and not them crowding
the tray I pull down
on the grey plane
with more things
to type on, send and receive
the rolls of scotch tape wrapped
around my wrists shoving seeds
from the harvest into my eyes
sending gong vibrations through my cells
calming the doubts I have but
will always have
until
I see him
the one who could fit my space
the space next to me
that doesn’t need
but just accepts
the snowfall of soul
falling mounds of white
that keep reminding me
there really are gems
that exist way down
underground
hidden where I just can’t see
don’t you see
no one knows
the silence of it all up here
no one knows except me
the proof I could find
no one sees the quiet
I see down there.
11/16/09
The scent of fire still rises off of
my live skin during hot showers,
so many since
scrubbing sea salt and brown sugar
filling new layers
with oils of alphabet minerals and extracts
from plants that she provided with such precision,
the ground beneath she calls to for certain things
like the pool calls me sometimes
when I cast my eyes on a big stone
tied to my foot at the bottom,
something Harold would do,
and I wonder where he is, if there exists
another Harold, would he play dead
with me or paint my eyes black for me
his long, skinny body and glowing face
luminescent like the jellyfish that light up
when brushed any certain way
where bland needs mustard,
it’s never friction when you’re floating in water
and your body is goo,
but they feel the swerve and send lit signals
they knew you were there
in the water with them just passing through
what seemed like a clear way,
and I did meet someone like Harold,
a Welsh novelist wired to a lightning bolt
and there
there he saw me right back
right away
but we were both on our own missions
my ideas on the unseen
his ideas on death
his unhinged knee shook to the rythm of the blues,
the gold shirts and red lights flickered in our eyes,
and the floor seemed to open up beneath our stools
he tipped his hat when I said I didn’t like most people
but I could tell his sense was heightened and
the seat was empty,
but the pool is no where near the ocean’s enthusiasm
and closer to the earthworms and the cracks
in the cement left over from quakes
and shifts she needed to make,
but something left undone
she turns into a different trail of evidence
like the spray of a skunk,
burnt woods I still smell
where I stood there holding the match,
the embers blushing in their teepee of kindling
as the wind from our voices blew through.
The scent of fire still rises off of
my live skin during hot showers,
so many since
scrubbing sea salt and brown sugar
filling new layers
with oils of alphabet minerals and extracts
from plants that she provided with such precision,
the ground beneath she calls to for certain things
like the pool calls me sometimes
when I cast my eyes on a big stone
tied to my foot at the bottom,
something Harold would do,
and I wonder where he is, if there exists
another Harold, would he play dead
with me or paint my eyes black for me
his long, skinny body and glowing face
luminescent like the jellyfish that light up
when brushed any certain way
where bland needs mustard,
it’s never friction when you’re floating in water
and your body is goo,
but they feel the swerve and send lit signals
they knew you were there
in the water with them just passing through
what seemed like a clear way,
and I did meet someone like Harold,
a Welsh novelist wired to a lightning bolt
and there
there he saw me right back
right away
but we were both on our own missions
my ideas on the unseen
his ideas on death
his unhinged knee shook to the rythm of the blues,
the gold shirts and red lights flickered in our eyes,
and the floor seemed to open up beneath our stools
he tipped his hat when I said I didn’t like most people
but I could tell his sense was heightened and
the seat was empty,
but the pool is no where near the ocean’s enthusiasm
and closer to the earthworms and the cracks
in the cement left over from quakes
and shifts she needed to make,
but something left undone
she turns into a different trail of evidence
like the spray of a skunk,
burnt woods I still smell
where I stood there holding the match,
the embers blushing in their teepee of kindling
as the wind from our voices blew through.
11/15/09
The waterfall’s a white blur in the thicket of burnt thugs,
we’d reach through to see if the story was real
but there was no passage through the stuffed wardrobe
of live woolen oaks and moth-eaten redwoods.
My grandmother’s embroidery sweetened
the obsidian holes
peach daisies and purple clovers planted
on my winter sweaters
what seemed to be a random choir
sung quietly with the rock of the chair
deadly needles
thin threads
chocolate pinwheels on gilded china of painted roses
an unusual allowance
but we shared a naughty tooth
dainty bites into tongue-less layers
of dry cookie and tucked marshmallow
sheets of no tossing,
horse show braids pulled tight on my scalp
and Brahm’s violin concertos louder than our
crunching gravel driveway on Sunday morning.
He taught me how to make him the perfect martini
in his library of suede and oriental,
swording olives from the bottom of his glass
hint of gin budding curiosity
pores open to toasty afternoons of cigars
and wood-burning heat.
The two of us matching
Viennese collars, plaid kilts, patent-leather shoes
polished for the aisle of red velvet cushions,
she never liked her smaller size.
We’d slumber into the yellow light blown from brass uncles
and float away to pinkish flute cousins,
tracing each other’s palms
with our little fingers
signing swirls of affection
jotting down lines of knowing
we knew the way
through the rusty hangers of discord
out of the illusory nibbles of high noon.
The waterfall’s a white blur in the thicket of burnt thugs,
we’d reach through to see if the story was real
but there was no passage through the stuffed wardrobe
of live woolen oaks and moth-eaten redwoods.
My grandmother’s embroidery sweetened
the obsidian holes
peach daisies and purple clovers planted
on my winter sweaters
what seemed to be a random choir
sung quietly with the rock of the chair
deadly needles
thin threads
chocolate pinwheels on gilded china of painted roses
an unusual allowance
but we shared a naughty tooth
dainty bites into tongue-less layers
of dry cookie and tucked marshmallow
sheets of no tossing,
horse show braids pulled tight on my scalp
and Brahm’s violin concertos louder than our
crunching gravel driveway on Sunday morning.
He taught me how to make him the perfect martini
in his library of suede and oriental,
swording olives from the bottom of his glass
hint of gin budding curiosity
pores open to toasty afternoons of cigars
and wood-burning heat.
The two of us matching
Viennese collars, plaid kilts, patent-leather shoes
polished for the aisle of red velvet cushions,
she never liked her smaller size.
We’d slumber into the yellow light blown from brass uncles
and float away to pinkish flute cousins,
tracing each other’s palms
with our little fingers
signing swirls of affection
jotting down lines of knowing
we knew the way
through the rusty hangers of discord
out of the illusory nibbles of high noon.
11/08/09
Un raconteur as zey say-
ninety-two years
Japanese, German, and French
jokes told with jesting wit,
his lavender wife dozes off in her wheelchair
small flares of delight from time to time,
too much bromide, I assume.
She licks the gold foil from the dark chocolate squares
with more enthusiasm than opening her eyelids
and dribbles coffee ice cream onto her silk blouse.
His red pants and race track tie put some
jovial back into the mint bomb shelter,
air-conditioned to preserve the plastic plants.
Thick-rimmed writer’s glasses,
he went to Stamford and
boarding school back east,
refuses to read the New Yorker zeez days,
downheel as zey say.
He calls her, baby, in the gentlest way,
would she like a Belgian waffle, baby?
She says she doesn’t care.
She doesn’t seem to mind she’s away
somewhere closeby,
but I could tell she would sweep hair from a forehead
the way her smile lines mapped her face.
I let out a hearty laugh during his story
about his ill-tempered polo horse,
she opened her drowsy eyes for a trite-less moment and
gleamed at me from across the synthetic tablecloth,
you have a good laugh, she mumbled.
It’s the one thing I have,
the one thing that won’t grow mold or fly away,
but did she ever stare at the drip in the bath tub?
Je suis un cliché.
From invasions to stables,
a gentleman pushes his lady through the platitude
with so much glee- true allies, true glory-
a novel about love and war and a pill cocktail.
Un raconteur as zey say-
ninety-two years
Japanese, German, and French
jokes told with jesting wit,
his lavender wife dozes off in her wheelchair
small flares of delight from time to time,
too much bromide, I assume.
She licks the gold foil from the dark chocolate squares
with more enthusiasm than opening her eyelids
and dribbles coffee ice cream onto her silk blouse.
His red pants and race track tie put some
jovial back into the mint bomb shelter,
air-conditioned to preserve the plastic plants.
Thick-rimmed writer’s glasses,
he went to Stamford and
boarding school back east,
refuses to read the New Yorker zeez days,
downheel as zey say.
He calls her, baby, in the gentlest way,
would she like a Belgian waffle, baby?
She says she doesn’t care.
She doesn’t seem to mind she’s away
somewhere closeby,
but I could tell she would sweep hair from a forehead
the way her smile lines mapped her face.
I let out a hearty laugh during his story
about his ill-tempered polo horse,
she opened her drowsy eyes for a trite-less moment and
gleamed at me from across the synthetic tablecloth,
you have a good laugh, she mumbled.
It’s the one thing I have,
the one thing that won’t grow mold or fly away,
but did she ever stare at the drip in the bath tub?
Je suis un cliché.
From invasions to stables,
a gentleman pushes his lady through the platitude
with so much glee- true allies, true glory-
a novel about love and war and a pill cocktail.
11/07/09
I feed the Oleander tree
but for candlelight’s bittersweet grave.
If it’s leaves were just poppies-
instead
both the antivenom and the toxin.
Anyone can paint lilies
play keys and pluck strings
or sing the crescendo of
a Nightingale-
it’s the dense magenta in the buried beet
and the last molar capped in dark fortune
where the bamboo rod casts into
the wormy ground of rites
that turn old into antique,
roe into caviar.
If I could die my skin that hypnotic color
and wrap silk robes around my stem,
the probing of the uncoiling Cobra
would be merely a hallucination
in the hazy den of Opium pipes,
and the charmer’s flutes
could be passed down to someone else
who felt interred
lowered somewhere tight
unfaded
unbleached,
the richest tomb
Cleopatra could have.
I feed the Oleander tree
but for candlelight’s bittersweet grave.
If it’s leaves were just poppies-
instead
both the antivenom and the toxin.
Anyone can paint lilies
play keys and pluck strings
or sing the crescendo of
a Nightingale-
it’s the dense magenta in the buried beet
and the last molar capped in dark fortune
where the bamboo rod casts into
the wormy ground of rites
that turn old into antique,
roe into caviar.
If I could die my skin that hypnotic color
and wrap silk robes around my stem,
the probing of the uncoiling Cobra
would be merely a hallucination
in the hazy den of Opium pipes,
and the charmer’s flutes
could be passed down to someone else
who felt interred
lowered somewhere tight
unfaded
unbleached,
the richest tomb
Cleopatra could have.
11/05/09
my tragic scarlet
fists of raspberries
from the prickly bushes of
free-falling
is human of course
the only home for a
mind full of scorpio,
an unknown
scent in a foreign picture
no cashmere in loose subtitles
disconnected from the
velvet mouths which
let out butterflies that brush
cheeks into dimples,
a strung alphabet flickers
like flashing ecstasy
from a dim room’s window,
the weeds so natural
to a check-out audience where
a fresh-squeezed pitcher tips into
the whole world sink
but time
time so careful
to not rip the wrapping paper
on predictions of train sets.
I slept of frightful charms on
a bracelet, golden horns and bells
clanging together spitefully
lava thoughts
of unshaven meadows with a view
of the salty chop washing up onto shore,
black tar and broken seashells
stuck to the bottom of my feet.
my turn up to the board,
eleven plus five,
listless drift of white chalk
in the classroom where
pressed handkerchiefs are
pulled out of herringbone suits,
my bloody nose tends to
leak when incense swings dry
and holy water flies yonder
into the closet where the confessional of a girl
trusts but never again,
she wants the sliding door
to open and true wit fall through
like hide-and-seek
sardines in a four-inch bed
covers rolled back slowly to hear the
tip-toeing up the hidden staircase
only best friends can find
the trunk of wigs
accents and lisps
cookies and milk
crossed fingers and winks.
my tragic scarlet
fists of raspberries
from the prickly bushes of
free-falling
is human of course
the only home for a
mind full of scorpio,
an unknown
scent in a foreign picture
no cashmere in loose subtitles
disconnected from the
velvet mouths which
let out butterflies that brush
cheeks into dimples,
a strung alphabet flickers
like flashing ecstasy
from a dim room’s window,
the weeds so natural
to a check-out audience where
a fresh-squeezed pitcher tips into
the whole world sink
but time
time so careful
to not rip the wrapping paper
on predictions of train sets.
I slept of frightful charms on
a bracelet, golden horns and bells
clanging together spitefully
lava thoughts
of unshaven meadows with a view
of the salty chop washing up onto shore,
black tar and broken seashells
stuck to the bottom of my feet.
my turn up to the board,
eleven plus five,
listless drift of white chalk
in the classroom where
pressed handkerchiefs are
pulled out of herringbone suits,
my bloody nose tends to
leak when incense swings dry
and holy water flies yonder
into the closet where the confessional of a girl
trusts but never again,
she wants the sliding door
to open and true wit fall through
like hide-and-seek
sardines in a four-inch bed
covers rolled back slowly to hear the
tip-toeing up the hidden staircase
only best friends can find
the trunk of wigs
accents and lisps
cookies and milk
crossed fingers and winks.
10/30/09
my dizzy boot straps
frayed from so many turns around
the erratic pocket watch
an estranged momentum
the white paw never could let go
miles of suede tassels with plastic beads
a fringe of swinging pendulums
chiming midnight
with every point of the finger
and ceremony upstaged
doctors of secondhand ticks stopped
to the half hour
tweezing and winding
held up to the ear of sirens and pindrops
on the sterile floor of the waiting room
scrubbed by the fragile hand of a dreamer
who saw fairness in the rainbow suds
left not a trace of folly
no backwards counting could fix
the grease from the motor lines my ever-crooked eyes
more stories packed down deep into sockets
of burnt out firmament
rattling around in the frosted looking-glass
and the hum of the engine fades
as the flash of the last card whizzes by
on those fast-talking tables of mercy
misunderstood spades and hearts
around twelve whole numbers
with more lessons in between.
my dizzy boot straps
frayed from so many turns around
the erratic pocket watch
an estranged momentum
the white paw never could let go
miles of suede tassels with plastic beads
a fringe of swinging pendulums
chiming midnight
with every point of the finger
and ceremony upstaged
doctors of secondhand ticks stopped
to the half hour
tweezing and winding
held up to the ear of sirens and pindrops
on the sterile floor of the waiting room
scrubbed by the fragile hand of a dreamer
who saw fairness in the rainbow suds
left not a trace of folly
no backwards counting could fix
the grease from the motor lines my ever-crooked eyes
more stories packed down deep into sockets
of burnt out firmament
rattling around in the frosted looking-glass
and the hum of the engine fades
as the flash of the last card whizzes by
on those fast-talking tables of mercy
misunderstood spades and hearts
around twelve whole numbers
with more lessons in between.
10/29/09
The barber said he saw some grey hairs on my head,
but I told him they were silver,
and my mole has been traveling
to the tip of my tongue lately,
a mind of it’s own, in cahoots with my heart, I think..
it’s ambiguous nature
sometimes a beauty mark
sometimes ugly with wiry black hairs,
a line crossed through,
stay away or I’ll turn you into a slimy toad.
Ohhhh, but I feel the surge in my belly
rise north to my eyes,
and I let out a little water- gravity’s always south-
my stubborn dam hoards it’s pool,
but trickles down my river arms
still outstretched to the east and west,
the holy ghost part in the sign of the cross perhaps..
even from the empty sounds of the wind,
when the acoustic strums visit,
the breaking, the cracking,
my virgo moon makes a fist
punching the heavy clouds to the side,
the beavers would understand
all that work to grow some silver streams
from the uprising of a grassy field in a dream.
The barber said he saw some grey hairs on my head,
but I told him they were silver,
and my mole has been traveling
to the tip of my tongue lately,
a mind of it’s own, in cahoots with my heart, I think..
it’s ambiguous nature
sometimes a beauty mark
sometimes ugly with wiry black hairs,
a line crossed through,
stay away or I’ll turn you into a slimy toad.
Ohhhh, but I feel the surge in my belly
rise north to my eyes,
and I let out a little water- gravity’s always south-
my stubborn dam hoards it’s pool,
but trickles down my river arms
still outstretched to the east and west,
the holy ghost part in the sign of the cross perhaps..
even from the empty sounds of the wind,
when the acoustic strums visit,
the breaking, the cracking,
my virgo moon makes a fist
punching the heavy clouds to the side,
the beavers would understand
all that work to grow some silver streams
from the uprising of a grassy field in a dream.
10/26/09
Dig and dig and find a gem,
Trek and trek and reach the mountaintop
above the sea of thick clouds,
Sail and sail and discover rich land
Dive below deeper and deeper
and find a treasure chest where
the lone octopus reaches around
in the depths for something
it cannot see but only feel
in a desert of paved pores,
strewn beer cans,
and shaved heads,
battered language, soft hands,
tabloids and prescriptions.
The old cowboy tells us about each dusty saddle,
how it was sewn and shaped,
his cattle dwindling,
his pencil sketches belittled by huge canvases
of bold colors and shapes,
the golden arches sprout absurdly on his horizon,
jet skis dot the manmade lake below.
The old blues musician tells us about
his student, the one who really had the talent,
who let go of the techniques
and traditions he passed down to her..
to string a guitar, to thread a saddle,
to plant a seed, to touch the red earth..
the nature in human
is to be a part of the land,
to seek out the good souls which
maintain it’s heartbeat,
to mix like water.
And my spirit owl with it’s long white wings
still visits the music box canyon,
just a simple place of real and true.
Dig and dig and find a gem,
Trek and trek and reach the mountaintop
above the sea of thick clouds,
Sail and sail and discover rich land
Dive below deeper and deeper
and find a treasure chest where
the lone octopus reaches around
in the depths for something
it cannot see but only feel
in a desert of paved pores,
strewn beer cans,
and shaved heads,
battered language, soft hands,
tabloids and prescriptions.
The old cowboy tells us about each dusty saddle,
how it was sewn and shaped,
his cattle dwindling,
his pencil sketches belittled by huge canvases
of bold colors and shapes,
the golden arches sprout absurdly on his horizon,
jet skis dot the manmade lake below.
The old blues musician tells us about
his student, the one who really had the talent,
who let go of the techniques
and traditions he passed down to her..
to string a guitar, to thread a saddle,
to plant a seed, to touch the red earth..
the nature in human
is to be a part of the land,
to seek out the good souls which
maintain it’s heartbeat,
to mix like water.
And my spirit owl with it’s long white wings
still visits the music box canyon,
just a simple place of real and true.
10/25/09
Two spiders the size of an ogre’s ear,
one on the wall just above the waterline,
one in the reflection just below;
which one floats and bends in the ripples,
which one can I bring my eyelashes right up to
and study it’s long legs for a while,
which one sees my dilated pupils
and tenderly crawls up my arm,
which one crawls faster into it’s hole?
I sink my nose, hold a calm, and see clearly
the soft stones it comes from and buries itself into,
all shades of the same earthy tone.
It speeds furiously,
and even faster, it’s likeness
vanishes into the water’s quake.
The open air flute makes it’s calls to the creatures
who play stillness and flight,
and the ones who grew near here, grow near here,
their unusual nuances so usual,
so camouflaged in the unsteady nurture of
an electric fence whose braided tresses
dangle for the twin arms in the fairest mirror.
Our hair drips, drop by drop, and I admire
the deep turquoise color of my towel and
the stones’ shadows meeting our shriveled feet
as we discuss the difference between
criticism and judgement.
From the water our consciousness breeds and
spreads into the spider’s musical sheet,
and the last rung on the rope of fairy-tale skies
dangles like a loose tooth a gentle tug could pluck
and bury in the garden of mine and yours.
With my curious tongue,
I lick the salt from my tournament knuckles,
and revere the taught silvery threads.
The sliver of the mineral moon brightens
as the salmon clouds quietly float on,
and I bear in mind the steam-train comet
that shot last night’s sky,
for the riddle of the day seems too dry.
Two spiders the size of an ogre’s ear,
one on the wall just above the waterline,
one in the reflection just below;
which one floats and bends in the ripples,
which one can I bring my eyelashes right up to
and study it’s long legs for a while,
which one sees my dilated pupils
and tenderly crawls up my arm,
which one crawls faster into it’s hole?
I sink my nose, hold a calm, and see clearly
the soft stones it comes from and buries itself into,
all shades of the same earthy tone.
It speeds furiously,
and even faster, it’s likeness
vanishes into the water’s quake.
The open air flute makes it’s calls to the creatures
who play stillness and flight,
and the ones who grew near here, grow near here,
their unusual nuances so usual,
so camouflaged in the unsteady nurture of
an electric fence whose braided tresses
dangle for the twin arms in the fairest mirror.
Our hair drips, drop by drop, and I admire
the deep turquoise color of my towel and
the stones’ shadows meeting our shriveled feet
as we discuss the difference between
criticism and judgement.
From the water our consciousness breeds and
spreads into the spider’s musical sheet,
and the last rung on the rope of fairy-tale skies
dangles like a loose tooth a gentle tug could pluck
and bury in the garden of mine and yours.
With my curious tongue,
I lick the salt from my tournament knuckles,
and revere the taught silvery threads.
The sliver of the mineral moon brightens
as the salmon clouds quietly float on,
and I bear in mind the steam-train comet
that shot last night’s sky,
for the riddle of the day seems too dry.
10/21/09
Thick bangs of live Oak rooting into my eyebrows
keep my October forehead warmer
so I can steep on this high tea
and observe the slick spilling by,
a black cashmere mustache over glossy lips
where a whirlpool tongue awaits
the calligraphy pen
that presses too hard
and blots a signature with a sigh
jabs the black top hat,
some air for the captured specimen
whose only limb can’t climb
nor any suede boot dare kick
the dainty tea set
wobbling by on a varnished cart
over the squeaky floorboards from that room to this
but the smoke stacks that storm the sky
and the tractors that bully the land
still can’t compete with the sparks of an eye
of the black and white hurricane.
Cloaks of velvet line the view into
unrequited love stories tucked away
by the mousey lullabies of
porcelain dolls in lace frocks tied with cherub bows,
pink lips of then and rosy cheeks of forever
sit against the powder blue taffeta of good night
that we slumber into
as we creep up the oak banisters of polished fingerprints
dripping candlesticks from the tables of civility
gripping beating canes from the hat-racks of order,
we try and try to consider what plea
but it’s all ours to burn
the parchment folded up into a plane
that flew right into the sealed felt trap
of the Cottonmouth’s drawl.
Thick bangs of live Oak rooting into my eyebrows
keep my October forehead warmer
so I can steep on this high tea
and observe the slick spilling by,
a black cashmere mustache over glossy lips
where a whirlpool tongue awaits
the calligraphy pen
that presses too hard
and blots a signature with a sigh
jabs the black top hat,
some air for the captured specimen
whose only limb can’t climb
nor any suede boot dare kick
the dainty tea set
wobbling by on a varnished cart
over the squeaky floorboards from that room to this
but the smoke stacks that storm the sky
and the tractors that bully the land
still can’t compete with the sparks of an eye
of the black and white hurricane.
Cloaks of velvet line the view into
unrequited love stories tucked away
by the mousey lullabies of
porcelain dolls in lace frocks tied with cherub bows,
pink lips of then and rosy cheeks of forever
sit against the powder blue taffeta of good night
that we slumber into
as we creep up the oak banisters of polished fingerprints
dripping candlesticks from the tables of civility
gripping beating canes from the hat-racks of order,
we try and try to consider what plea
but it’s all ours to burn
the parchment folded up into a plane
that flew right into the sealed felt trap
of the Cottonmouth’s drawl.
10/18/09
Three preachers in a cozy room
voices as wide as the American sky
eyes as keen as the eagle
dignity as tall as the mountain top
in the range of humanity,
the soul that left the balcony
of the Lorraine Motel spreads out
like his mushroom bullet
that devastates the fear
they were born into,
those trees won’t grow back
for the tossed ropes
and the burnt crosses
and the tears that followed are
his marathon of miles
dripping from the foreheads
way up in the chiseled mountains
down into the flooded Mississippi
gushing milky brown water where
the ocean’s circulation disperses like
a salt gargle in a rotten mouth,
but white tipped hats still peek on the banks
and the last preacher’s still a witness,
his stories rise
from the fresh steam of that open heart,
his grey hairs are mine,
my infinite balcony.
Three preachers in a cozy room
voices as wide as the American sky
eyes as keen as the eagle
dignity as tall as the mountain top
in the range of humanity,
the soul that left the balcony
of the Lorraine Motel spreads out
like his mushroom bullet
that devastates the fear
they were born into,
those trees won’t grow back
for the tossed ropes
and the burnt crosses
and the tears that followed are
his marathon of miles
dripping from the foreheads
way up in the chiseled mountains
down into the flooded Mississippi
gushing milky brown water where
the ocean’s circulation disperses like
a salt gargle in a rotten mouth,
but white tipped hats still peek on the banks
and the last preacher’s still a witness,
his stories rise
from the fresh steam of that open heart,
his grey hairs are mine,
my infinite balcony.
10/17/09
My guillotined head rests
on top of some rusted pitchfork
back in Oklahoma where the prairie dolls
hide and seek down long corridors
to play for eternity
naughty, invisible tricks,
the skinny traces of a little girl’s finger on a foggy mirror.
My crystal eyeballs stare out across the sinister plains
until the crows come around to pick, pick, pick
only real dolls scare them away,
the wicked witch of the west said as
she pecked her old cash register
next to the pink cake so pink,
and I also met Santa Claus just when I
said I didn’t believe,
he was dressed in Santa Claus Red
red corduroys, red shirt, red shoes, and even a long white beard
I called after him, excuse me, where are you headed today,
and he shoved his SC signet ring in my face
as if I would understand then what he was up to.
Spells of magic bounce around these tropical ballrooms
like some jolly-faced joke that was inscribed on
the banana leaves of the jungle mural that looms over
the glue of Southern comfort stools until
I found that tiny axe in a bowl of gravy
that bubbled haughty cackles and ho-ho-ho’s.
My guillotined head rests
on top of some rusted pitchfork
back in Oklahoma where the prairie dolls
hide and seek down long corridors
to play for eternity
naughty, invisible tricks,
the skinny traces of a little girl’s finger on a foggy mirror.
My crystal eyeballs stare out across the sinister plains
until the crows come around to pick, pick, pick
only real dolls scare them away,
the wicked witch of the west said as
she pecked her old cash register
next to the pink cake so pink,
and I also met Santa Claus just when I
said I didn’t believe,
he was dressed in Santa Claus Red
red corduroys, red shirt, red shoes, and even a long white beard
I called after him, excuse me, where are you headed today,
and he shoved his SC signet ring in my face
as if I would understand then what he was up to.
Spells of magic bounce around these tropical ballrooms
like some jolly-faced joke that was inscribed on
the banana leaves of the jungle mural that looms over
the glue of Southern comfort stools until
I found that tiny axe in a bowl of gravy
that bubbled haughty cackles and ho-ho-ho’s.
10/16/09
Stone the edge of your pocket knife
and carve your name on the tree trunk,
flip it open and closed
and reminisce about the headlines,
the robbery you got away with.
We look up above the reaches of a mind’s eye
to observe the clean bark,
I am not a vampire.
And I see myself wherever I go,
I walk around comforted by so many me’s.
The nice me’s give me some hot tea and a farewell,
but too many me’s I see
gutted pigs, shorn sheep, and I remember
Conrad’s horror, and yes, it’s been said before,
but it’s hard to see much more than my sloth
and my greed and my vanity
all my vices lay before me like a
cushion the soul fell on with a remote control
heater so I don’t have to feel uncivilized
They lay strewn all around us
stuffed with cocaine and nicotine
in between pointy-toothed jaws
that nature intended for the weak
or for the ones who saw a cushion
in the throat of an end.
Stone the edge of your pocket knife
and carve your name on the tree trunk
flip it open and closed
and reminisce about the headlines
the robbery you got away with.
We look up above the reaches of a mind’s eye
to observe the clean bark
I am not a vampire.
And I see myself wherever I go
I walk around comforted by so many me’s.
The nice me’s give me some hot tea and a farewell
but too many me’s I see
gutted pigs, shorn sheep, and I remember
Conrad’s horror, and yes, it’s been said before,
but it’s hard to see much more than my sloth
and my greed and my vanity
all my vices lay before me like a
cushion the soul fell on with a remote control
heater so I don’t have to feel uncivilized
They lay strewn all around us
stuffed with cocaine and nicotine
in between pointy-toothed jaws
that nature intended for the weak
or for the ones who saw a cushion
in the throat of an end.
10/14/09
Can you have a romance with words
or a love affair with a song?
Can you soar over clouds in pictures
or reach a field of grass in a movie?
Can you drive so many miles in this old car
through turning leaves and rolled-up hay?
This wind-shield is my frame
the picture moves and changes slightly
and I try to forget about the cigarettes
piled-up in the ashtray.
I can see why Reba’s in love with Jesus,
says he lifts her up to Heaven,
sends all her letters to the sky,
they fly on up like used tissues
smeared with lipstick kisses
and burst pillows hugged so tight
making up for lost might.
He’s the only one she can really trust,
He never turns away.
And the old woman in the stone house
nodded to me as I snuck a peek down
her wishing well and sludge
in my rubber clown boots over to the
lone Christmas tree out there on the mud flat.
I zapped each red bulb with my beaming eyes
sending shards of little mirrors all around
until the tree was free of tinsel
and able to see the sun
which should really light up
the open plains that I miss so much.
Can you have a romance with words
or a love affair with a song?
Can you soar over clouds in pictures
or reach a field of grass in a movie?
Can you drive so many miles in this old car
through turning leaves and rolled-up hay?
This wind-shield is my frame
the picture moves and changes slightly
and I try to forget about the cigarettes
piled-up in the ashtray.
I can see why Reba’s in love with Jesus,
says he lifts her up to Heaven,
sends all her letters to the sky,
they fly on up like used tissues
smeared with lipstick kisses
and burst pillows hugged so tight
making up for lost might.
He’s the only one she can really trust,
He never turns away.
And the old woman in the stone house
nodded to me as I snuck a peek down
her wishing well and sludge
in my rubber clown boots over to the
lone Christmas tree out there on the mud flat.
I zapped each red bulb with my beaming eyes
sending shards of little mirrors all around
until the tree was free of tinsel
and able to see the sun
which should really light up
the open plains that I miss so much.
10/12/09
The Continental Divide
Yesterday I locked eyes with a lone wolf on the hillside
his sure eyes followed me
his grey fur so beautiful and full,
he made sense to me in this twenty below
but I’ll keep my wisdom to myself,
my truth is flapping like the swinging doors
in that old saloon
and the whisky glass slams on the long wooden bar
shattering no treaty.
There’s crumbs in his beard and
he knows not how to stop
sopping up his yolk with a micro-waved biscuit,
he says with a drawl he wasn’t smart enough
to leave this heavy stool,
and another spirit so restless
fills his head with white lines
and his chest with deep green pulls
black eyes dilated, so lost in the car chase scene,
unaware.
But there’s light behind her emerald eyes and
black feathers touch her bare feet,
she brought us home and told us stories of
the traveling rodeo
and the white-tailed antelope
skinny, tan legs skimming through the grasslands
but slower-paced than I had imagined.
The fly-fishermen on the Big Horn River
use rainbow for Trout but never for a man
so the snow comes and the reservation
quiets down
after the catch and release
he goes back to his flat screen
that one tired waiter won’t watch.
These old diners pass along that small song
of her baby that was born too soon
and dead rabbits now lay along the roadside
once roasted on a fire
way up on the Black Hills
above where the waters divide.
Yesterday I locked eyes with a lone wolf on the hillside
his sure eyes followed me
his grey fur so beautiful and full,
he made sense to me in this twenty below
but I’ll keep my wisdom to myself,
my truth is flapping like the swinging doors
in that old saloon
and the whisky glass slams on the long wooden bar
shattering no treaty.
There’s crumbs in his beard and
he knows not how to stop
sopping up his yolk with a micro-waved biscuit,
he says with a drawl he wasn’t smart enough
to leave this heavy stool,
and another spirit so restless
fills his head with white lines
and his chest with deep green pulls
black eyes dilated, so lost in the car chase scene,
unaware.
But there’s light behind her emerald eyes and
black feathers touch her bare feet,
she brought us home and told us stories of
the traveling rodeo
and the white-tailed antelope
skinny, tan legs skimming through the grasslands
but slower-paced than I had imagined.
The fly-fishermen on the Big Horn River
use rainbow for Trout but never for a man
so the snow comes and the reservation
quiets down
after the catch and release
he goes back to his flat screen
that one tired waiter won’t watch.
These old diners pass along that small song
of her baby that was born too soon
and dead rabbits now lay along the roadside
once roasted on a fire
way up on the Black Hills
above where the continents divide.
10/11/09
better check under your motel bed
an animal totem may be lurking
eyes glowing in-between the spring mattress
and the hunter green wall-to-wall carpeting
like the road’s edges tonight
our headlights
a splash of the spoon
dipping into a broth of antelopes and rabbits
these Badlands speak tongues of mine
from their velvety passages
of the sleeping gnome’s pockets
he’s under these funny trees
and then all the cities of stars
that start at the bottom of the sky’s dome
like someone shook that plastic toy
santa claus gave you
in that mall where your sister got lost
and you kept it on your shelf
for so long that the stars fell
into a blanket of snow
and the night’s only lights
were their wild eyes.
better check under your motel bed
an animal totem may be lurking
eyes glowing in-between the spring mattress
and the hunter green wall-to-wall carpeting
like the road’s edges tonight
our headlights
a splash of the spoon
dipping into a broth of antelopes and rabbits
these Badlands speak tongues of mine
from their velvety passages
of the sleeping gnome’s pockets
he’s under these funny trees
and then all the cities of stars
that start at the bottom of the sky’s dome
like someone shook that plastic toy
santa claus gave you
in that mall where your sister got lost
and you kept it on your shelf
for so long that the stars fell
into a blanket of snow
and the night’s only lights
were their wild eyes.
10/05/09
Twenty degrees and dusted with snow
this old mining town entices the wanderering eye
with bursting bulbs of blackjack
promises of long legs to
wrap around your body and hold your hand tight
at the table of dirty games
or maybe behind a closed door,
after all, the emptiness can really get to you
the hunt’s in the trunk and the rush is History.
We walk along an acid-trip rug static and stained-glass
light fixtures highlighting our booth of factory-stitched upholstery
decorated with motorcycles and maroon vinyl.
She brings two plates, no not a scone, but some fried dough,
her mullet is blonde, she takes a long hard drag
while pouring an endless cup of coffee
and a red-faced Mr. Big Truck sips his whisky
at the end of the lonely corridor of slot machines
ching-ching, look at that pretty thing, come her little lady,
come here big man, dressed all in your camouflage,
you must be tired after a long day of huntin’ fer trophies
of bison and antelope to hang on the wall
chandeliers of antlers
python skin tracks the molding
filling every inch of bare bone.
Twenty degrees and dusted with snow
this old mining town entices the wanderering eye
with bursting bulbs of blackjack
promises of long legs to
wrap around your body and hold your hand tight
at the table of dirty games
or maybe behind a closed door,
after all, the emptiness can really get to you
the hunt’s in the trunk and the rush is History.
We walk along an acid-trip rug static and stained-glass
light fixtures highlighting our booth of factory-stitched upholstery
decorated with motorcycles and maroon vinyl.
She brings two plates, no not a scone, but some fried dough
her mullet is blonde, she takes a long hard drag
while pouring an endless cup of coffee
and a red-faced Mr. Big Truck sips his whisky
at the end of the lonely corridor of slot machines
ching-ching, look at that pretty thing, come her little lady
come here big man, dressed all in your camouflage
you must be tired after a long day of huntin’ fer trophies
of bison and antelope to hang on the wall
chandeliers of antlers
python skin tracks the molding
filling every inch of bare bone.
10/04/09
Transitions
into Nevada
waving goodbye to namaste and karma
straight into pumping iron,
a new dynamic,
nothing soft about the cross.
A sharp, whipping wind,
white caps to port,
down the slope
into the vast purple valley
held down by the heavy open sky.
Our handsome pilot
from the backyard ponds of North Carolina
looks up at his desert air space
with his clear blue eyes, his sure vision,
but not his own sky,
he shares it with us,
the forest of fighter jets,
slick swords, painted shields,
a red star on black,
Hornets and Hawkeyes,
Vipers and Tomcats,
a closet of uniforms, green and tan,
commanders and majors on
operations and missions..
A malfunction he noticed
before the flight,
his friend, an ejection too late.
To almost die once a month
what used to be once a week,
To land a fifty million dollar plane
onto an aircraft carrier
in the middle of the ocean
at night.
The real top gun,
a Lieutenant in the Navy,
trust,
trust in the chain,
crawl-walk-run,
In memory of
the dream of a five-year-old boy
whose
mountain lion always trails above
whose
great white shark always trails below.
Transitions into Nevada
waving goodbye to namaste and karma
straight into pumping iron
a new dynamic
nothing soft about the cross.
A sharp, whipping wind
white caps to port
down the slope
into the vast purple valley
held down by the heavy open sky.
Our handsome pilot
from the backyard ponds of North Carolina
looks up at his desert air space
with his clear blue eyes, his sure vision
but not his own sky
he shares it with us
the forest of fighter jets
slick swords, painted shields
a red star on black
Hornets and Hawkeyes
Vipers and Tomcats
a closet of uniforms, green and tan
commanders and majors on
operations and missions..
A malfunction he noticed
before the flight
his friend, an ejection too late.
To almost die once a month
what used to be once a week
To land a fifty million dollar plane
onto an aircraft carrier
in the middle of the ocean
at night.
The real top gun
a Lieutenant in the Navy
trust
trust in the chain
crawl-walk-run
In memory of
the dream of a five-year-old boy
whose
mountain lion always trails above
whose
great white shark always trails below.
10/03/09
I stared at the trees defending us from the bright light
the black & white finch zips home to a dusty branch
a few hours of silence
the gardener calls me hermosa
and wants to know what we we’re writing
I tell him poesia
her hand pokes at her eggs, the other scribbling rhymes
a copy of “Where the Sidewalk Ends” synchronistically appears
the pro golfer comes to mind
“when the left brain and the right brain work together” she says
and we say “or perhaps the heart and mind”
I find the best room in the house
a faded rug of half scholar, half geenie
worn down from all the debates and love-making
two wishes used up
a piano, a ukelele, elephants, nudes, and totems
every shade of peach in the pencil jar
that old saying needn’t be repeated.
I toasted some sourdough and smeared it with homemade apricot jam,
“bend down low let me tell you what I know”
they don’t wear socks
“I feel like burning down a church when you know the preacher is lyin’,”
with speakers so clear and loud,
the more you feel the essence of the squeeze.
U2 October plays, needle follows its circular path to the center
of an apple peeled round round to the core, too, also, to you.
Crunchy leaves crackling like
the old records who skip
along the yellow brick
so the reggae music jogs along
a scratchy pulse.
A lioness, blonde as the hills
the sunset in her eyes
sets in the West
in the company of chimes.
I stared at the trees defending us from the bright light
the black & white finch zips home to a dusty branch
a few hours of silence
the gardener calls me hermosa
and wants to know what we we’re writing
I tell him poesia
one hand pokes at her eggs
the other scribbling rhymes
the pro golfer comes to mind
when the left brain and the right brain work together
or perhaps the heart and mind
I find the best room in the house
a faded rug of half scholar, half geenie
worn down from all the debates and love-making
two wishes used up
a piano, a ukelele, elephants, nudes, and totems
every shade of peach in the pencil jar
that old saying needn’t be repeated.
I toasted some sourdough and smeared it with homemade apricot jam,
bend down low let me tell you what I know
they don’t wear socks
I feel like burning down a church when you know the preacher is lyin’
with speakers so clear and loud
the more you feel the essence of the squeeze.
U2 October plays next
needle follows its circular path to the center
of an apple peeled round round to the core back to you.
Crunchy leaves crackling like
the old records who skip
along the yellow brick
so the reggae music jogs along
a scratchy pulse.
A lioness, blonde as the hills
the sunset in her eyes
sets in the West
in the company of chimes.
4/22/09
una revolucion de muerte
black kettles
unbearable whistles and
high flames underneath
bitten lips
my hands, empty butterflies
in front of the projector
the turning reel
snaps over and over
no one laughs at simple shapes
and silent films anymore
there are only a few who
still sing about flores negras
so many
they cover the tiles of this
little kitchen floor
una revolucion de muerte
black kettles
unbearable whistles and
high flames underneath
bitten lips
my hands, empty butterflies
in front of the projector
the turning reel
snaps over and over
no one laughs at simple shapes
and silent films anymore
there are only a few who
still sing about flores negras
so many
they cover the tiles of this
little kitchen floor
4/16/09
I was a doll
fushia and yellow ribbons
black lace and gold coins
passed down from
generation to generation
kept in glass cases away
from the sun and air
the brown-skinned ladies
in the workshop
stitched me and
embroidered red flowers
on my dress and
braided my hair
just so
the last time
I sat on the shelf
the eldest brother
was tall enough to
see me every time
he walked to his bedroom
in that sandy house
with oatmeal and peach-colored
walls and wicker chairs
he knew about his
moorish blood
and saw something in me
that reminded him
of some lost treasure
or forgotten rhyme
something he was trying to
uncover about himself
but he never knew
quite what it was
sometimes he would
pretend that I was his
but my eyes were fixed and
my seams kept tight
he knew I was there
to tell him something
to give him a clue
as if I were able to speak
so he started to stare
with more determination
and kept wishing he
could understand me
as time passed
he decided to go off
on his own
knowing deep down
that I gave him the secret
in the very beginning
I was a doll
fushia and yellow ribbons
black lace and gold coins
passed down from
generation to generation
kept in glass cases away
from the sun and air
the brown-skinned ladies
in the workshop
stitched me and
embroidered red flowers
on my dress and
braided my hair
just so
the last time
I sat on the shelf
the eldest brother
was tall enough to
see me every time
he walked to his bedroom
in that sandy house
with oatmeal and peach-colored
walls and wicker chairs
he knew about his
moorish blood
and saw something in me
that reminded him
of some lost treasure
or forgotten rhyme
something he was trying to
uncover about himself
but he never knew
quite what it was
sometimes he would
pretend that I was his
but my eyes were fixed and
my seams kept tight
he knew I was there
to tell him something
to give him a clue
as if I were able to speak
so he started to stare
with more determination
and kept wishing he
could understand me
as time passed
he decided to go off
on his own
knowing deep down
that I gave him the secret
in the very beginning
4/14/09
la vie en rose
never as wild as
it may seem by day
but just the way
nature intended
to greet those in need
of a rose
in need of their
bright blue
the darker, the deeper
the purple
the lighter, the easier
to let go
and assume the role
of Beatrice
her subplot brewing
only she brought
seven more flowers
to the lotus pond
and kept her disguise
of spright messenger
disappearing into the woods
just to reappear with something
new to bring to her
heifer of the dawn
her quick feet and constance
in a black cloak and
the noisy rats
that she swings around
by the tail and throws
into the bloody bath
to rot with the lazy carcasses
she's staring up
at the lord of the flies
tongue out and
licking her fingertips
salivating and moaning
the sneaky ravens
and slow moose circling
this wicked witch of the east
who dances with the earth,
wind, and fire
in cahoots
with those native drums
to spread the power
that dwells down where
the wild things are
and in her lucid nighttime
she stands on her head
over where the sidewalk ends
la vie en rose
never as wild as
it may seem by day
but just the way
nature intended
to greet those in need
of a rose
in need of their
bright blue
the darker, the deeper
the purple
the lighter, the easier
to let go
and assume the role
of Beatrice
her subplot brewing
only she brought
seven more flowers
to the lotus pond
and kept her disguise
of spright messenger
disappearing into the woods
just to reappear with something
new to bring to her
heifer of the dawn
her quick feet and constance
in a black cloak and
the noisy rats
that she swings around
by the tail and throws
into the bloody bath
to rot with the lazy carcasses
she's staring up
at the lord of the flies
tongue out and
licking her fingertips
salivating and moaning
the sneaky ravens
and slow moose circling
this wicked witch of the east
who dances with the earth,
wind, and fire
in cahoots
with those native drums
to spread the power
that dwells down where
the wild things are
and in her lucid nighttime
she stands on her head
over where the sidewalk ends
4/08/09
purple syrup
oozing down her chin
dropped teaspoons
and satin slippers
she calls it
the fever of the fools
pieces of lint
bits of debris
camoufalged in the bristles
of the oriental rug
rolled-up
shaken suspension
of backlit frustration
hesitant glimmer
slow to travel
in the eyes of her hurricane
the gloves of the mime
unroll
for the soles of perfection
a cold hand
on the forehead
of unrest
purple syrup
oozing down her chin
dropped teaspoons
and satin slippers
she calls it
the fever of the fools
pieces of lint
bits of debris
camoufalged in the bristles
of the oriental rug
rolled-up
shaken suspension
of backlit frustration
hesitant glimmer
slow to travel
in the eyes of her hurricane
the gloves of the mime
unroll
for the soles of perfection
a cold hand
on the forehead
of unrest
4/07/09
Apollo's snakey
excuses like twin mountains
one on each side
a stretched-out perspective
from a crystal ball
on starched white linen
windowsills of porcelain
filled with synthetic
apples and figs
to amuse
the retired bow and arrow
who can see from the corner
of his eye
that crow hovering
over the carrion
before the passage
he was too scared to heed
The Oracle's prophecy
the only ones who
make it through
are the bravest of all
those who face their worst
fears
and see themselves
naked
in the face of the third mountain
where the third pig
lives hidden among
The Trees
and The Spring
unfortunate fortune
of the liar
Apollo's snakey
excuses like twin mountains
one on each side
a stretched-out perspective
from a crystal ball
on starched white linen
windowsills of porcelain
filled with synthetic
apples and figs
to amuse
the retired bow and arrow
who can see from the corner
of his eye
that crow hovering
over the carrion
before the passage
he was too scared to heed
The Oracle's prophecy
the only ones who
make it through
are the bravest of all
those who face their worst
fears
and see themselves
naked
in the face of the third mountain
where the third pig
lives hidden among
The Trees
and The Spring
unfortunate fortune
of the liar
4/06/09
untitled screams of a
deceptive knight
in hammered armor
provoking the pigment-filled
needle to press harder
puncturing
black tire marks
into the skin
of a game-show host
who is known far and wide
for flipping the coin of
double-sided smiles
no shadows
and slap
you win
but
his teeth grind at night
down to the nerve
endings and beginnings
put under the pillow
of disbelief
awake to find no heads or tails
but the tooth
no one told
your mother about
a test of the suspicious child
untitled screams of a
deceptive knight
in hammered armor
provoking the pigment-filled
needle to press harder
puncturing
black tire marks
into the skin
of a game-show host
who is known far and wide
for flipping the coin of
double-sided smiles
no shadows
and slap
you win
but
his teeth grind at night
down to the nerve
endings and beginnings
put under the pillow
of disbelief
awake to find no heads or tails
but the tooth
no one told
your mother about
a test of the suspicious child
4/04/09
a tyrant's rage
raised to the top of the boney mast
the keel so far below
backhanded waves of thought
this way and that way
bullied by the book
the pencil and ruler
forgetting that he once broke
a silent tack
a weak tiller pulled
to the chest
unseen admiral winds
the father-figured sort
pacified by the lull
an air-filled ego
leading someone into their
triangle of the appealed race
awards metallic
an angle to the sun
sparked in the weeds
of an undercurrent
uncontrolled switches
delete
delete
still there
4/05/09
Sunday morning
swallowing gulps from
the baths of purity
mouthfuls of soap
lavender and daisies
and
snip snip
there you go
all better now
sunburnt and chapped
reach for the ointment
greasy wheel slips
to the other side of the
spoke, foot caught
topple into cool mud
down-gazed drool
fingers like earthworms
exploring the grit
of an unshaven whore
moist from the underground pools
an accident of the blinded bat
2/04/09
reason + gravity = fear
reason - gravity = outer space
outer space - reason = fantasy
1/20/09
fever dreams of red and gold
what logic behind an eyelid
undesignated in mold
the mouse's tail, the firefly
evade the darkest time of night
sisters of sound, so steadfast and pure
festivals of immortality
circles and streams demure
12/15/08
schizophrenic heart
why is it so hard to lose
someone I never had
because his words meant so much
because I wanted to kiss his lips
because of his messy handwriting
because his voice hit my chest
like a tidal wave
I was sucked into the swell
of sweet intentions
and forced outcomes
I drowned in surrealism
and was shot by free will
what could have been
something real
something beautiful
maybe it was all just a fantasy
but that’s who I am
and that’s my own truth
I still believe in you
and your schizophrenic heart
12/14/08
the soap is all over the floor
from the bubbles I blew
I thought you were strong enough
hopes of a grandfather clock
I thought you were passionate enough
let down again
the hand reaches
to help me off the ferris wheel
why do I do this
not one stone
weightless clouds
if crying were a remedy
if dying were a solution
that’s what it feels like
creul insanity
disbelief
fairy-tales written about men with long arms
by women with longer ones
and I could go on
but it seems like a waste
words of powder
pulverized trees
the key was tossed
into the well
clanging against the others
scattered about
in anticipation of the next lunar eclipse
the soap is all over the floor
from the bubbles I blew
I thought you were strong enough
hopes of a grandfather clock
I thought you were passionate enough
let down again
the hand reaches
to help me off the ferris wheel
why do I do this
not one stone
weightless clouds
if crying were a remedy
if dying were a solution
that’s what it feels like
creul insanity
disbelief
fairy-tales written about men with long arms
by women with longer ones
and I could go on
but it seems like a waste
words of powder
pulverized trees
the key was tossed
into the well
clanging against the others
scattered about
in anticipation of the next lunar eclipse
12/13/08
their doubt for the story
a cold hand under my skirt
creeps up my thighs
rough fingers snag my stockings
running like gravity
down past my ankles
the layer between skin and space
pulled apart
by the agnostic
my knees press together
words of faith screamed
holding on to the hem
their doubt for the story
a cold hand under my skirt
creeps up my thighs
rough fingers snag my stockings
running like gravity
down past my ankles
the layer between skin and space
pulled apart
by the agnostic
my knees press together
words of faith screamed
holding on to the hem
12/08
I wanna throw you up against a snow bank
so all you see is white and me
I wanna build a snow castle
and crawl
inside of it with you
and kiss you iridescently
I wanna shove snow in your face
and down your shirt
and lick it off
til my tongue sticks to yours
and we melt the snow
and sink together
12/04/08
Like shards of glass
falling in slow motion
cutting flesh along the way
body and blood on our tongues
to remind us of his sacrifice
for the good of the whole
the rose and the thorn
but I dreamt of the future
peering through an oval window
my hand in yours
below the fields of green
and the sun and the strings
little messages
his soul, the gate-keeper
Like shards of glass
falling in slow motion
cutting flesh along the way
body and blood on our tongues
to remind us of his sacrifice
for the good of the whole
the rose and the thorn
but I dreamt of the future
peering through an oval window
my hand in yours
below the fields of green
and the sun and the strings
little messages
his soul, the gate-keeper
11/22/08
running like the bulls
through the valley of clocks
small black notes
traveling as close as can be
a singleness of purpose
under the command
of Diotima's breath
within these parallel lines
the road that was meant
for the pitch of an oboe
running like the bulls
through the valley of clocks
small black notes
traveling as close as can be
a singleness of purpose
under the command
of Diotima's breath
within these parallel lines
the road that was meant
for the pitch of an oboe
11/13/08
when the light comes from the side
and illuminates your two eyes
I can see the shadows of your lashes
like nettles pointing their way out to sting
sadness droops underneath
the lid of your absent stare
the fervor of a blink so adamant
about strong and ready stakes
you turn toward the mirror on the wall
pupils widening like the great abyss
silhouette breathing quietly
seconds fall to the floor like pennies
rolling along underneath the bed
the low rumble nudges your shoulder
turn around to the immediate shore
flood the cavities of burden
with the silver of a swan
when the light comes from the side
and illuminates your two eyes
I can see the shadows of your lashes
like nettles pointing their way out to sting
sadness droops underneath
the lid of your absent stare
the fervor of a blink so adamant
about strong and ready stakes
you turn toward the mirror on the wall
pupils widening like the great abyss
silhouette breathing quietly
seconds fall to the floor like pennies
rolling along underneath the bed
the low rumble nudges your shoulder
turn around to the immediate shore
flood the cavities of burden
with the silver of a swan
11/05/08
crack my spine and fix my posture
stare at my ancestors hanging on the wall
the carriage awaits close the curtains
call the messenger who sends the telegram
announcing the baptism of the advantaged
wooden wheels over cobblestones
rock him awake to protest
the hidden layers of brushstrokes
the rosary beads and lace fall
against his snowy bonnet
to pacify and veil the glare
of her fairness
crack my spine and fix my posture
stare at my ancestors hanging on the wall
the carriage awaits close the curtains
call the messenger who sends the telegram
announcing the baptism of the advantaged
wooden wheels over cobblestones
rock him awake to protest
the hidden layers of brushstrokes
the rosary beads and lace fall
against his snowy bonnet
to pacify and veil the glare
of her fairness
11/03/08
my window feels the pebbles you throw
that we pieces from the tablet
the ancient creed was written on
just a light tapping like the sound of rain
helping me rest but audible enough
to remember the testament
In the morning I peer below for the proof
but the rubble does not reveal
and the glass is the only witness
my window feels the pebbles you throw
that we pieces from the tablet
the ancient creed was written on
just a light tapping like the sound of rain
helping me rest but audible enough
to remember the testament
In the morning I peer below for the proof
but the rubble does not reveal
and the glass is the only witness
11/01/08
your eyelashes flitter like a moth
desperate for the light
too close but not enough
that sound hits your chest like a bullet
flying through the air of fiction
filling our lungs with imagination the throne
pretend not to know
but the middle eye leaks toxic tears
you only see the one
nothing you can do as your flesh burns to grey
white lights nowhere else to go
your eyelashes flitter like a moth
desperate for the light
too close but not enough
that sound hits your chest like a bullet
flying through the air of fiction
filling our lungs with imagination the throne
pretend not to know
but the middle eye leaks toxic tears
you only see the one
nothing you can do as your flesh burns to grey
white lights nowhere else to go
10/30/08
will you tell me a story
I'm not sure I believe
is it romance to pine
is it attachment to grieve
the princess has fainted
the unicorn has stalled
don't try to wake her
too noble to scald
please drink this potion
it turns everything pink
sprinkle it on the feast
before the moon sinks
will you tell me a story
I'm not sure I believe
is it romance to pine
is it attachment to grieve
the princess has fainted
the unicorn has stalled
don't try to wake her
too noble to scald
please drink this potion
it turns everything pink
sprinkle it on the feast
before the moon sinks
10/29/08
pressure on my lungs
crystals in my throat
my belly contracts
you draw with your eyes
a house of feathers
invisible wind
imaginary sky
pressure on my lungs
crystals in my throat
my belly contracts
you draw with your eyes
a house of feathers
invisible wind
imaginary sky
10/27/08
brackish pool in my skull
rebellious crosscurrents awry
a surge, a suction
sand and silt suspended
my nails turn black
through soil and rock
the path of an earthworm
I heard of a fountain
where sediment falls
easing the flow
restoring the view
brackish pool in my skull
rebellious crosscurrents awry
a surge, a suction
sand and silt suspended
my nails turn black
through soil and rock
the path of an earthworm
I heard of a fountain
where sediment falls
easing the flow
restoring the view
10/25/08
I've lit my lantern
the cobwebs are gone
but the floors are creaking
and the hallways are long
You wait for me
at the edge of the well
I can hear you breathing
like an echo of a shell
The bathtub is overflowing
water spills through the cracks
trickling down to the source
the silent stream so black
I've lit my lantern
the cobwebs are gone
but the floors are creaking
and the hallways are long
You wait for me
at the edge of the well
I can hear you breathing
like an echo of a shell
The bathtub is overflowing
water spills through the cracks
trickling down to the source
the silent stream so black
10/07/08
head is in the clouds
reading paragraphs over
and over and over
forgot an appointment
lost my keys
got locked out of my apartment
at midnight
had to trek back into the city
through the snow
and sleep in my friend's queen-sized bed
without a toothbrush
watched Wilco doc, nice-n-aesthetic
but kinda boring
but I don't care
I like clouds, too
maybe I need to go into a cave
and not come out for a while
head is in the clouds
reading paragraphs over
and over and over
forgot an appointment
lost my keys
got locked out of my apartment
at midnight
had to trek back into the city
through the snow
and sleep in my friend's queen-sized bed
without a toothbrush
watched Wilco doc, nice-n-aesthetic
but kinda boring
but I don't care
I like clouds, too
maybe I need to go into a cave
and not come out for a while