You should know that I complain.
A lot.
About the heat and the snow
and the ******* that cut me off on my way to the store.
I will complain. And whine.
Because no one ever listened before.

You should know that I might shy away from your fingers.
My self esteem has been smothered beyond resurrection
and I'll hide my face in the sunlight
and cower, blushing and shamed
when your hands show even the slightest hint of lust.

I hope you understand
that I will smile.
I will smile about the trees and the wind
and comment on the way tendrils of mist
wind through the valley
or how the colors of the pasture
are so vibrant in April.
And I will smile and sing to the windows.
You will listen, I hope.

You should know that sometimes,
when we creep along the highway in the evening
and a song comes on, dripping with sentiment
in the way the sun sets behind the mountains,
I will want you to be silent.
Hushed and still as the horizon.
I will need the radio up, the voices off,
I will need your fingers in mine.

I want you to know that I crave a listener.
An understand-er.
A know-er and do-er.
A lover.
I need silence and peace
and long drives into the dark.
I need whispers and songs
and summer breezes in the bedroom.
I need and want and lust and whine.


I'm selfish and sad
and I know you'll understand someday.
even if it takes a life-time.

We all could use a little faith
in our diseased gardens
and frayed robes.
We all could use a steady hand to hold.

Woman, with the six string in your lap,
honey,
make the mountain sing.
Lover, in the sweaty satin sheets,
baby,
show me the good the night does bring.
You stained my skin with delicate song
the caress of your melody urges me on.

I longed to be here.
Forgetting how much I loathed these walls
till I found myself inside them
again.

You might put the past behind you,
but even when the sun is on your back
you can still feel it's heat.

I looked through my window.
I looked into the sun.
I asked her if the shadows
long to feel her scorching tongue.

We don't remember the sun
for the blisters on our skin
but for the way it sets
in beauty and grandeur
on a fiery horizon,
with surreality and colour.
We remember the sun
for the climactic ending
to a short,
passionate life.

New Year's day chases us towards the dawn.
'Stick around, will ya?'
But I fear the light behind his fresh eyes
is nothing more
than a temporary stain
of January sunshine.

The symptoms on the flimsy blue pamphlet
read more like my own biography.
And the sable gems of your eyes
were spilling over
with an emotion
all but unknown to me.
I felt
dim.

I guess it's my turn
to take a dive into
the little orange bottles.
Maybe this time
I wont resurface.

I'll give you the gift
of my skin on yours.

It's back and forth,
not too  fast nor slow,
be the wind, be the calm,
be the strong, be the kind
starve, trim, nip, tuck
a perfect vessel
we pick you apart,
no matter.
and then I'm skinny and sad
and sliced up and over
and the sun rises without me each day
and then

I am quiet.

We walked through high desert.
High,
and feeling deserted.

We sped down the interstate,
barefoot and dodging oncoming traffic.

I guess it's a miracle we found our way,
never strayed from the path
as it wound through swamp-land and quicksand

And soon we were strutting up the driveway
proud, our mascara running like warpaint
our feet had blistered and cracked.
But still, we arrived.
and still, or journey never came to a close.

After the crippling exhaustion of finding my way
to the threshold of home,
the maps were being drawn all over
so I fed myself with the knowledge of bandaging wounds
and repairing a flat on an empty road.

I will come to terms
and hear-out the voices of ****** and despairing,
who tell me with voices like roadside ditches
that the destination
is to become a memory.

to be a worn out engraving on a marble stone.
to be rotted beneath your feet,
deserted
and maybe high
up in some sort of heaven.

We found the table overcrowded
with empty wine glasses,
smudged with lipstick
and fogged with
mid-sip laughter,

You sat across from me,
staring disinterested
at the bustling table,
a drunken lot of babbling,
over-dressed, under-clothed women.
They were a swarm,
a cluster of buzzing worker bees
enjoying a loose night in a filthy bar.

Like the good lady I am,
I crossed my legs
and watched the purse of your lips
relax
into a grin.
I was ******* down the champagne,
sick with envy for the lipstick
that clung to your pout
and furious at the curtain of caramel hair,
begging my fingers to smooth the knots
and then mess it all up again.

When the table cleared,
and we were left,
calling cabs in the reaches of dawn,
you stole glances at my jewelry
and the jade of my irises.
They absorbed your aura
as you strode clumsily towards the blue taxi,
while I was busy imagining what your name might be
if you thought my dress was pretty,
or if you thought my perfume
would taste like berries
if you kissed it off my neck,
your heels had clacked all the way to the street.
and maybe it was
the curves under your silk purple dress,
or the smell of spilt wine on my black one,
or perhaps a combination of both,
that led to my overactive imagination,
or maybe you put them in my head
when you hesitated at the door of the cab
before beckoning me over
and pulling me in beside you
onto the cold leather
and your lavender fabric
where your perfume permeated the backseat.

It tasted of honey and roses.

Coincidence of the stars,    
Chemical compounds,
Natural bonds of our tired flesh
Emerging  from mud and earth.

Feral beasts,
Fed by the dirt and brush,
Being who's instinct and will
Conquer the evolved heart.

The blood must flow
And the teeth must gnash.
Heathens in skins, a religion of fire and smoke,
Bones in the dust under a canopy of stars,
Guided by nature and the will of the African plains.

The order of the suns and moons,
Woven from the fibers of
our very tissue and DNA.

Oceanic creatures and woolly ape
Bred their kin,
Harvested knowledge from the
Seed of grass, growing wild though the hills.

To live and to fall
Beneath the crust of the earth
And feed the flowers,
To grow a garden from moldering flesh,
And sleep in darkness,
Bodies akin to the soil
Given only to ground.

A fragile
and calloused concoction.
Coincidence of the stars,
Creation of the cosmos.

When my skin splits in two
I finally feel whole.

privileged and dismissed.
the beige of the spectrum,
clothed in a flimsy dress
peeling off my hips
in a mint-walled motel.
matte irises examining the dingy sheets
where I sink,
saturated by sweaty palms
and the mildewed ceiling
is crumbling around us
at every tremor of the mattress.
we evaporate
into the musty air,
mingling with the mists
of the hourly guests before us.

and maybe I sauntered
from that room
a little rosier than before.
maybe I left there
a few shades darker.

I always wondered if you were like me.
If you dreamt of stars and the sea.
Thought of ways to get away,
Awake by night and dead by day.
Knowing you, I found this true.
Saw how deep and high you grew.
You veiled me, thick as vines.
And filled the gaps between my lines.

It meant a greasy burger from the diner on Main st.
A sweaty drive in that noisy ford
with ice cream melting in our laps.
It meant skipping prom
to watch Lord of the Rings on your mother's couch
and never once look at the TV.
It meant reading your favorite book,
and pulling up grass by the roots
to busy our hands
and keep them from wandering places they shouldn't.
Us was the color of the stars when we lay on our backs
examining the milky way
and tracing our names
in constellations.
It meant the arguments at midnight
about the purpose of our lives,
what it meant to be and to belong,
and why the world was no musical,
and no wasteland either.
It meant the only obstacles
were curfew
and your awful cologne.
We were the music on that record
you gave me that first night out
when you took me to the cinema
and when I got home
I spun the vinyl for hours.
We were the color of the rolling hills
in the pastures
when we listened to our favorite songs
and discovered kissing
while we waited for the school bell to ring.
It meant the light always shone
and the rain only fell
when we felt like walking in it.
And it meant that sooner or later
we had to learn what it was like
to be an 'I'
after 'Us'
And we had to learn
all over again
to live without a 'We'

I think we all need someone we can spill ourselves into when it's four a.m and we can't sleep.

If you pay attention to the flowers,
the blooms in the hollows of your cheeks,
buds hanging from your jawbone,
bowing to a somber reflection,
Overlook the wilted edges
and the mud above the roots,
perhaps the petals won't fall.

If you sing for the meadow
lush in your temples
and between your eyes,
green with the vibrant flora,
light will fall over your eyes
and the growth in the soil
will be alive with allure.

Continents of
the flexing spine,
shifting behind the lungs.
A forest spanning dips and curves
from shoulder to hip,
the sway of your midriff
under the weight of
mountain peaks
and the valleys between.

Your own eyes,
holders of the grandeur
of what is molded around the bones.
You must prune the roses
with love of your warm garden
and the birds with flock
to your trees.

Do shadows long
To see the sun?

I can taste the huckleberries ripe on the branches
stolen from the fairy garden in the early summer
when the ravens weren't looking.

I stole a lot of things as a child.
I stole the UV rays from the sun,
tanning my alabaster arms
and freckling my shoulders.

I stole winks from boys in my third grade classroom
while the teacher had her back turned.
And I might have sold those winks
to other boys
for an extra juice at lunch.

Maybe I committed petty theft as a young lady,
taking the air from someones lungs,
******* in their light-bulbs and
blowing a fuse.

I'm a thief,
taking the light from their eyes
and the bullets from their guns,
I stole smiles
and never gave them back.

--------------
Fuel for my fire
in exchange for warmth
and a good laugh
---------------

Two smiles and a trigger pull,
momma fell down to her knees.
I got twelve dollars and the gas tanks full.
momma, be at ease.

I took the wind at my back for far too long
with you hanging from my hair,
and now all I know is all but gone,
and the bass in my veins is dragging me back
to that ****** song.

Was there life in those eyes,
could you see through the flies,
in the light of the fire ,
the breath of the liar,
can you tell the naughty
from nice?

Two smiles and a trigger squeeze,
momma is on her knees.
She has a killer son, but a loving one,
her baby is all she sees.
he's headed for hell
with a bullet to sell,
momma, be at ease.

Getting on
through a trying work hour in the night-time rush,
groped by strangers with dark eyes
the color of neglect and whiskey.
Men with knives under their sleeves,
calling you back and back again,
refills for their poison and pretzels for the table,
don't be a *****, darling.
I only want to feel those hands trembling
under mine.
All you ever knew were the bruises and the burns.
Gliding closer and closer to
your face, your hands,
inching towards the skin that gleams, exposed
and invokes the shame you feel from
fetid breath on your neck, these
animals with moldering livers.
but another round for the men in the grease and grime.
Green bottles and a smile that said
'I like the taste of your weakness,
You like the abuse.'

wrap your summer fingers
around her wintered soul

Maybe the Earth grows cold
out of longing.
For he has drifted so far from the sun,
and misses her warmth
on his aching skin.

Our brains are jellied by the surreal.
Wires disconnected, rearranged,
our circuit boards frazzled.
The reflections of human faces and bodies
scrambled signals.
Eyes not looking past the crooked fingers
or freckles.
All you see is the dirt, the rust,
you can hear only the creaking joints,
and the groans of your muscles.
But your audience, your lovers and families,
they don't know about those awful sounds
they only see the flowers, hear the music,
a melody of glowing bare shoulders
and a chest filled with life,
a hundred systems,
working in unison to hold up your head.
I never liked the way my hips stuck out,
my ribs, flesh pulled taught against the bones.
Or my pale skin,
I glow in the sunshine.
Baking soda, salt,
awful tasting elements alone,
but they both get mixed into the batter,
overpowered by golden eggs,
sinful sugars,
and the cake itself,
baking soda and all,
well,
it's ******* delicious.

Do yourself a favor and keep scrolling.
Our first snowfall began at 9 a.m. this very morning.

Down came crystal ice, lacy clouds, and with it came the seasonal side of human troubles. I found my self transformed into a filthy romantic, gazing longingly out the window, wrapped in a wool blanket and holding my little brother who smiled at the Frosty the Snowman cartoon on TV. With the cold always comes the chills. The ones that shimmy up your shirt as you stand in the bathroom, trying not to look in the mirror while you undress. The chills that creep into your veins through open wounds and wind themselves around your rib-cage. I couldn't feel the warm air shooting from the vents while I sat beside them. I couldn't taste the Jack-In-The-Box daddy brought home at midnight. He put on an old movie and slowly everyone drifted to sleep. That's when I stole a few hours for myself. Taking my little doe-eyed puppy out into the yard, tossing him into a snowdrift for the first time. He cowered there for a moment, before darting back onto the deck, staring in awe and terror down at the snow. I lit a stolen cigarette and plopped down into the freezing mess.

I had a little too much to eat and felt like sleeping right there in my dampened jeans and Joe's Crab Shack t-shirt. I thought about putting out the Pal-Mal stick and being a straight-laced little girl for the holidays. I thought about the stinging of my latest stress-relief therapy (a bit of a home remedy) and also about Robert Plant's hair. Soon enough, after endless replays of my favorite music videos, my mind had emptied. The frigid air had ****** all my thoughts and memories from my head like a vacuum cleaner. All that remained was a sense of impending doom. A needle in the base of my skull, every nerve-ending in my body was pinched by icy fingers. Someone was calling my name from inside me, My own skin was shifting and rippling over my muscles, trembling and tingling. There was somewhere I had to be, something I should be doing, someone who needed my help. I sat up and looked around the yard, from the chain link fence, to the gorgeous view of the valley and the city *******, to the ugly siding of my manufactured home. My eyes darted back and forth, my puppy, the chicken house, the dead rose bush. I was alone, alone with my dog in a white miracle. Every snowflake looked like a stray bullet, raining down on me from the gods, but kissing my cheeks and melting on my feverish skin. I wished i could fall like that, and drip onto someone's lips or cling to their eyelashes.  But i was here, alone in the darkness with smoke-scented gloves and breath, in a yard of dead grass frozen in a flood.And then I started to cry. I didn't know why, I still have no idea what kind of madness washed over me as I shivered, my *** soaked and my nose running. But I sobbed and sobbed and put my head between my knees. The snow had gathered on the shoulders of my woolen pea-coat and sprinkled down as I shook and gasped, I must have sat there for half an hour, listening to a train go by in the valley, singing to the empty streets, trying to pull myself together. I'm still shivering even sitting here in my warm bed. But at that moment, I was as fragile and fleeting as the very dust that had settled across the entire town.

I managed to dry my eyes and stumble back through the front door tailed by a whimpering brown pup. Everyone, still crashed on the couches and floor, unaware of the scraggly disaster crawling through the living room. The Christmas tree twinkled in the corner and the TV played static. I kissed my baby brother on the forehead and slipped my lighter back into my coat pocket. The season had set in, the snow was here to stay. I was left wondering about the madness of  the season and the sanity of the skies.

Every year,  water freezes mid air and falls onto the earth in heaps of cold white heaven. It's a ******* miracle. It happens every year without fail and yet somehow it surprises and amazes us every time.

winded and chilled.
did your feathers get ruffled
as you flew in from the storm?
molting on my carpet
take a bath, birdy.
cleanse those wings
and wash your bony knees.
I don't want to see those nasty bruises
so cover your skin
and fly away again.
let me see those eyes, birdy.
have you a cold or
did the bitter cold
leave you blind?
better for you,
to see not with eyes but with frail
birdy fingers.
don't hate your world, birdy.
you're no more
no less
than any other ******
who shoves past you in the supermarket.
we all came out of a filthy ******* ******
so climb off your high horse
and get in line.
we're all just waiting around
til someone digs us hole
or lights us on fire.
so birdy,
if you can help it,
don't be a *******.
out you go,
into the cold.
smile birdy,
be glad for the sun in the mornings.

We all wear the skins of our worst enemy.

Mama can sing lullabies to the baby
for 18 years
and daddy can come and go,
leaving the garden with a message
for baby:

'You have a river inside you.
white water and grizzly bears
chasing salmon.
the world is wild, baby.'

Green-eyed child stumbles away from the nest
with a head of butterflies,
soft hands.
She didn't see the meteor
when it fell form the heavens
and struck her baby face.

She saw clearly
for the fist time
a world without mother's song.
Millions, billions
of men and women,
digging a pit in the cold earth.

'To the world, dear baby,
you are but flesh
and working arms.
So pick up a shovel'
said the man in the suit.

'Start digging.
We're going to hell'

I recall those cosmic brownies from my childhood
and the little kool-aid drinks we picked out from the 7-11
with coins from the belly of our couch cushions.
Watching Judge Judy in the afternoons
on grandma's squishy sofa
thinking that 'law' and 'court'
were words you used when your room-mate
didn't pay her rent on time
or when your boyfriend used your credit card
to take out the ***** from down the street.
So we plucked the feet off the daddy-long-legs
and lit ants on fire
when the swimming pool was closed.
Names like
Charles Manson
Ted Bundy
never sparked fear in our bodies
never bred anger or sadness in our hearts.
So we crawled through our tunnels past youth and adolescence
awoke to a world where
men and women
who slaughtered dozens of innocents like cattle
are being served breakfast by the men and women we trust
to keep us safe at night
while we sleep in our soft beds
more vulnerable
than the devils who leave us in fear.

Death is a filthy temptress,
but a beautiful one.
Anyone who disagrees
is either dying,
or in denial.

'love and miss you'

Oh lord! The skies have cleared,
I have seen the sun at last!
Such a touching message from
father to daughter,
a letter of unconditional love
for your offspring!
All faults must be erased and
we have reached forgiveness at last!
Alert the community!
Assemble the clergy!
Release the doves
and ring the bells!
The world must hear of your
love and sacrifice
for a daughter a thousand miles away!
We rejoice!
May the children dance and
the people sing,
we come together in celebration of
love and life!
The deep and concrete connection
between two generations
of one family!
Call down the angels!
Bless, with your heavenly fingers,
the man who has the audacity
to express to his only daughter
such honest and heartfelt emotion!
To give his heart
to the girl he sees just once a year
and calls every six months!
How he must love her so!
And may she reply with a simple message:

'you too'

for it is all she can manage to say
to a man who is all but
a stranger.

I wonder about the eyes and the lips.
If they would have held a reflection of yours.
Maybe the hair was the same texture,
a replica of your youth
which you have lost.
Would you have changed your mind?
If you had seen the fingers and toes,
a perfect count of ten,
and the cream of it's alabaster hands.
Sometimes I wish there were small words
to call my name,
and sometimes I am glad
for your barren womb
for I know of your temptations and weakness
the dust in your bones
as your young body ages beyond
reasonable years.
For the smoke was toxic in your nostrils,
did a bundle of Jefferson's
burn a hole in your pocket?
Only virgins wear white on their wedding day,
was your a dusty beige
clashing with the grey tux
of a criminal?
A man who has a title branded on his
filthy hands, that he touched that girl with,
til death
do you part?
How much justice did you desire for those fingers
after they were clasped around your thick neck?
So I pray your blood keeps pumping and your
brain still buzzes
after every hit,
and I pray the fog clears before your checks don't
and maybe you will extinguish the flames
before your lungs give out
just like your knees did that day.
They ignore your dodgy glances to the side,
your hands, aftershocks of the quaking nerves inside you.
They see past your sudden skeletal visage
and the grey tint in your cheeks
like you have sat on a shelf, sagging and
collecting particles.
But I taste your abuse,
every flavor of it.
As long as you live through your high,
you wont have face your low.
We are thankful everyday
for your blessing
of infertility.