monster"i feel like a monster" -whispered secrets to a plastic Jesus;pray for swift, holy justice.no - Fate smiles. too easy.so youswallow it down, let itburn deep inside,destroying.i tasted the fever on your lipsand it was metallic[gunmetal]burning quicksilver in your veins,dripping off your tongue.so youwaited for it to consume youlike the monsterthat it is."we're all monsters inside" -broken revelations in the darkness;the daylight was too brightto see our sins by.i drew the fire out with each kissand blew away the smoke:guilt is like a glass hammerbeating against stone.
transition--ingi am -- transition:without you.lingering here --feelings i can't seemto process.let me burn,bright, hot;light up the midday skywith myself.driving in the middleof the roadwhen i'm alone:without you."compulsive behaviors",i'm told, defined:getting -- sorted -- out.i am -- transition:finding myself.
past tensemostly, when I think of you, it's in the words of other people."oh, yeah, I knew him... knocked him down a few times" oreven, "he was a good worker, but always just a little strange" andmost frequently, "he drank too much and ran his mouth a lot".it's not so strange anymore to think of you in the past tense --I asked your father about you, once; "he's dead to me." period.sometimes I think I understand, he was a hard man. past tense.ironic, then, that you pointed blame at everyone but him.eleven years of waiting brought me a few months of lettersuntil you realized that I'm not the same little girl anymore,that now I've wised up to being manipulated and controlledand then I was the one in the wrong; "don't ever write again."I look at those letters sometimes, wondering if maybe --just maybe -- there was something that I missed, some shredof truth or caring, but all I find is the you that I know now fromother peoples' words, and when people ask; "my father? he's dead."
word vomitit's been so long since I'veheard your voice breaking.(darling, you were alwaysthe best part of me.)sometimes I stay awakeall night, curled up in thespace between my ribs andbackbone where youused to lay your head whenyou had too much to drink.I hate that you left mehanging on the clotheslineto dry, forgotten, likeyesterday's laundryand the crows settled'twixt my bonesto peck outa heartbeatto replace the oneIcould no longerbear.
Passions"Miss Storm -- ""Eve, please.""Of course, Eve. If you would, move your left knee up, slightly to the left -- yes, there. Now, tilt your head back just so -- perfect. Three... two..."There was a familiar pop and flash, and the photographer emerged, grinning. "Wonderful! Wonderful, simply marvelous. That will do, Eve, that will do nicely. There is a dressing room -- ""Who may I see for payment, Mr. Evans?" She stood, discarding the kimono the photographer had arranged half-on, half-off of her body for the picture." -- to your left, I -- what?""Payment, Mr. Evans, as we agreed upon prior to this... arrangement."The photographer blinked his watery eyes several times, staring down what was -- in her opinion, at least -- a rather bulbous nose at her. "I believe that matter can be taken care of by your husband, Miss St -- ""No, Mr. Evans, it will be taken care of by me. At once, if you please.""Now, see here -- "Eve ignored him. "Do you have an agent who handles
personal(ities)s/w/m seeking s/w/ffor long-term relationship.enjoys grilling, gardening,comedy movies & quiet nightsat home by an outdoor fire.one small dog.respond? y/npause. stare at screen.too good to be true.ugly, gay, or lying?all of the above.delete.
the elements that bind us togetherpoems, wounds, and dead birdsmade a memory of me.you can't protect me from them;i meet things which do not belong to this world.sometimes there is a dark character in my dreams -her shelterfeels like the end.take a breathon a cold night.little gypsy moth,mi corazon,in every mindare ghosts up in the attic.i'd kill to be queen.
to an errant loveri have painted my loneliness white;make no mistake.it hides itself beneath my skinand if i try very hard i do not see it.only in the quiet moments.you are a teacherin the art of forgetting -already i have forgottenhow to breathe.air is as nothing.you are in my blood.i need to sleep to wake up but i can't.you promised to return -when? when? when?i miss you.i saw you todayand the words in my mouthblew away with the leaves.you whispered loving artificeagainst my skin in the stillness -"¿soy una puta, verdad?""sí, eres la puta más linda del mundo."and i am yours beyond all doubt and reason;only say that you will return.i will wait hereso that you may seek meif only in the quiet moments.
leavingleaving is a can that youkick around in the streetbecause it's been a long day& it makes you feel better.some days you kick itharder, longer than others,& some days there justaren't enough cans or streets.but the thing about leavingis that when thestreet lights come on,you always end up going home.
crystallophonethere is a punchcard sinlike a queen of spades smoldering in an alley.Engine,you hear how the gears churn,singing faster than we did beforeback when black magic dropped like apair of socks from the sky with suppliestaped to a note that said(oh, look at you now)'U.S.A.,freedom.'such a beautiful brain:whatwhat girlruns on gasoline?have a gallonor we can call it a balloon,and a new pair of glassesfor your tapered eyes(you peel the bark back on the logs,darling,but you're not sure what you see),and life says,either nail jello to a tree,successfully,or keep youricicles hanging from the eaves,caterpillars frolicking in the ashes,your 'Sam, I still don't have your number,'and your totaled passion:someone to hang inside out with,string you up like a steak with.ohwhat the hungerititis trying to tell memy brain churns like butter,my insides aflare, my chakras combusting,my
Harvest MoonThree a.m. moonlightacross lazy dust motes; atree scrapes the window.Your arm weighs on my hip likewhispered promises of love.
preludesi.blue rose into the city backdroplike balloons, a million for themorning sun prelude.ii.i've not slept a dreambut i have cried a salty faceand letters spilled like beansinto my moleskine,almost as virgin as i once waswith few stories between my covers.iii.the kettle's belly boilslike my head upon a pillow.iv.i am guilty for rarely finishing my teaeven when i use the small mugs;pour, rinse, repeat.v.perhaps today i will play dead.vi.perched behind my blindsit dawns on me that i am surroundedby walled neighbours, strangers,they're just preludes to loversthe way i am alwaysprelude to the one.
The Solipsist's LotThere's something about yourself that you don't know. You probably don't remember the circumstances very well, but I do. If you enjoy things the way they are, if you revel in even the smallest speck of ignorance, you need not read ahead. I won't force you. But from what I know of you, you don't like secrets. Especially not when they are about you.You see, when you were born, so at once was everyone else. Your mother, she sprang into existence, just like that, the instant your tiny infant brain achieved the smallest semblance of self-awareness. Woven out of the ether, she remembered everything that never happened, and she looked down at you, cradled and squirming in her loving arms."Oh," she said. "So here is life."The doctor was there too, although a moment before if there ever was a moment before he was not. He just nodded, smiling assuredly, and said, "Here is the beginning."And
a conversationi welcome sleep as it is - a long lost friend returning home from battle, arms draped over my shoulders, weeping. i held it close and whispered - as if it were my only friend, being the prince of the sky, asking of why i cling to my possessions like a dog to its territory, why i harbor insane notions about silly things -"we are all barren, stripping the land, looking for love in white-capped waves of our own destruction."i asked why mother nature was pulling me by the roots of my hair, and being as i am, a girl who speaks vague classroom french and stands at the waterside passing small thoughtslike stones as the brine and tangling seaweed washes over my broad and open feet, i condescendingly believed he would give me straight answers-"all languages we speak are diligent and binding, we bite our tongues against society, and she is just trying to say hello."silence like a trainwreck passes on four feet and i wait, breathing, for the hour to come and announce itself to me in a rain-l
amphitrite IIif my lip will still be split when the austral summer starts,and, all wrapped in rising sun, we're coccooning,if we're throwing all the good things into a bucket of riverness(and lawn flowers),will we want to wake up?I know I'll want to pourmy slice of eternity into a bottle of coconut essence,make my foreverafter sweet and tropical,and if your hands are balsam I cancarve my song in stone,and I will never die.But don't you ask yourselfwhy paper boats always sink, in the end?I don't think I care.I think they just sail off to a land without horizondeep in the underwater of the bathtub.You'll know when, andyou'll hear me sing a sea shanty, maybe.I want to take my ship until the end of the river.I want to see the spring pouring down blossom offeringsinto the ritual water, I wantour coast of muck and destruction to be aflame withmussel flowers.I'm a shellfish and my fingernails are painted green,I'm silent-all-these-years and fallen,I'm wondering where my watercolor
respiration.i am shipwrecked fever;kerosene sleep,& she is denied oxygen.i taste sirens on the shoreof her collarbones,& salt-licked sea limbs.but, it's the natural disasterwrapped around her coral spinethat really has my lungs s p i n n i n g.
mutethings have been easierwithout words &we pretend neither of us care;we stuttersplutterlaughing and chokingon puns &when you bend me over nounsi screamloudergrowlmore fluent.the words are there waiting to be spokenme . you . lovemy dear, we've been mutefor so longspeak to me.
despondenti."are you sleepy today?""yes.""but you were sleepy yesterday.""i know."ii.she stirs her pomegranate green-tea until it turns from clear to purplesetting it on her bedside table and climbing back into bed again.her fingers follow the bluer-than-usual constellation veins on her wrists and downto the freckle on her forearm and then the scar on the inside of her elbowcrossing the tendon as if it were crux.and then she remembered that God hasn't been with her lately.iii.today is long and sunny but when she steps outside the humidity creaks her bonesand her skin starts to inflame.she assumes that if getting the mail is a struggle, having a child would be too.iv.often times when she sets her tea down she remembers that her Bible is in the drawer beneathalong with the crucifix necklace that her mother made her.v.her husband comes home late nowadays and she never questions why that may bebecause she knows.she would do the same too if she had a wife who took four different
WhitmanI am all that grows from meand all that grows from me is sacred— my hair, dirty roots reaching towards sky,fed by sky, shifted by its undulating currents my fingers, spiders, crescents, twigs,gaunt, blunt, probing, inquisitive...prurient my ears, awkward conch shells jammed on as if by mistake,rigid and ridged, elven,innocent like unexplored caves for children to bound gaily intoresounding with echoed cheers of courage wantingas if a dozen more children waited within, fearless guides; my nose, obdurate. The reach of my eyes knows no bounds;what walls are there to throw my body against?
Send Me the Raintoday, they're all talking about the fires.the people on TV, the voices on the radio,the mouths that open and whisperand softly touch tongues. even the sky isrevealing black plumes of smoke,flaunting shameless and seductive curves.the rain's been too dry and the lightningisn't wet enough, panic isrising out of control in thisburning city. that'snot all;we have a crisis onour hands- the balloons arerunning out of air and eventhe experts don't really know why,and on top of those sinking rubber toysmy soul is losing moisturefaster than the crackling grass under the duress of flame.i'm starting to see the subtle luscious contoursof fumes,surrounding me.i might not exactly be news-worthybut if i catch, thenthe forest might too.i'm considered a reasonable loss, however.they heard it might storm tomorrow. and everybody knowsthat means they'll be safe-because they all talk about it.it almost stormed-the sky spat and thenthought better of it,
relearning i. stardust scatters with thedirection of my pupils –maybe secretly i am anastrology teacher, waitingfor a sign to winkhappily at me. ii. excuse the ramblingnature of forgotten questionmarks, but tell me:would you like to be theobject of handwritten clichéswould you like to whispersecrets in my palmand would youlike to be the possibility iii. air brushes against myskin like the torn petalsof a flower still standing.[ hold your head up high, honey,and tell tomorrow to wait justa while, iv. so you can figure outthe difference betweenpatience and having all thetime in the world. ] v. stardust glitters from thecreases of my hands.perhaps i am not the teacherbut the pupil,relearning how brilliantstars can shine.
tree, fiddler crabIt took days to hollow out the soft partsof the trunk, dig out the tree-flesh and sap,polish the raw wood so that when he sat,there would be no splinters. He carved his nameinto the side, like a blessing, a declarationof good fortune, and stowed his forest inside.
A ParenthesisYou were (a parenthesis, that pausedthe daily, mundane stuffof life;a bundled breathof fresh joy,and borne in the wonderof love.Gasping and grasping,'til in quiet you laidstill;and I, my Child,lie in quiet, stilltears).And now, that is all you are,and still so much more.
windstorms and labworkafflatus, inflatus, my morning globe,as lithe as your impermanence.and home! dread homes! are rabbit dugs,spoonholed piles of mexican brickwhere nothing ever touches down,nothing here alive receivesthe plains’ poor offering of gypsy light,the ugly wind that meets the mudline.[metaphors]1. a mottled fence2. and how these storms hold faceless teeththat slat their eyes through butter-woodthen purge their guts on wintered florets4. some freshly headless nativities,their polyethylene skirts upturnedfrom violent sacks5. and knowing i’m a soulessspeck i lick at what is manifest beneath your hair each poison taba colouracidfire or lake a brothel and religious studiesi know, i know you never meanto murderor completemebut do not say “live for yourself”.i’ve come online to see the godthat came before me.we are so poorly marriedlike bookend spines of Plath and Hughesup on the shelfare somehowsynon
Ottumwa ShamanIn Iowa, weeping willows dream ofTigers, born in pagan fog, theirCoat of stripes singing shamanSongs; shrill symphonies of grief.Heaven tilts, crashes, and we raceThe dirt to get away. We drink theEarth with bullets of air and growDizzy, light-headed from breathingSome far off flame. Perhaps a poetWho braved the fog of Ottumwa, andCaught fire. Every cowboy has hisSix chances before high noon, beforeThe fog forms wispy jackals to takeThem home again. Every son inheritsAn empty gun, six voids to fill withAnswers, skimmed and guessed from theCovers of books their fathers usedTo read. There is no other way.In sleeping, I have been to Iowa,And I learned where wiccans goTo make their bed. I do not know nowIf I had dreamed the weeping willow,Or if it had bent low to dream of me.In Iowa, there is no such truth, onlyDepth, and the shaman's song of grief.
Survival of the IllestAre those hints of lemon I detect?Look, I'm just here to get wasted, don't tryto make it more than that.I'd drink motor oil if I thoughtit could get me high; chase it with a shotof antifreezesoyou can keep your survival instincts,locked upin that pretty velvet box (along with allthose other thingsyou thought you could convince yourselfyou lived for). Instincts are the barebones of the impossibilities we wantedto believe in,remember,those times you tried to tell me thatadrenaline was God's wayof sayingthatwe were His chosen ones, we werespecial, we were free.I tried to tell you that instincts and Godcan't exist side by side, but I was alreadysofar gone, cornea constellationsspiraling and you looked at me with such pitifuldisapproval,I just gave up the fight.I told you once that my goal in lifeis to kill myself slowly, immerse my organsin gallonsof whiskey and scotchover a fifty-years-or-so period. "Just think,"I said,"it will be like an ocean, w
GlassI always laugh when you refer to me as glass.Not just because of the way you say it,(glass-as-in-gas).Or because I know it's a crack at my fragility.Glass is pure.I am like granite -my body nullified from too many clashing traits.Glass is transparent.I am like clay -illegible from all the plastered smiles.Glass is unyielding.I am like chalk -easily broken and scuffed away by meagre things.Glass is hung up on walls and in great cathedrals,tinted for enhancement, but only ever painted on by fools.I am hidden behind keypads and camera lenses,coated in a thick paste of deceptiveness.No, my love,I was never glass. (Despite my fragility)Call me granite or clay or chalkand be done with me.
la musica dulceheartbeats are psycho--somatic, dear;the ocean has swallowedme whole.hay una guitarra bajomi almohada, ysueño de música cuandoestoy solo.you came here withcity smoke in your lungs,and iforgot to breathe.