Tourist, who gave her eyes
to the fishes and the sharks.
Ingenue queen of the lingering darkness.
Tourista, chain smoking in the rain.
Perfumed winds blow from her mouth
dizzying the Phoenician sailors with longing for her shores.
And the moths circle,
searching for her cable knit heart.
And I will go back to my darling,
my darling tourista,
when you my darling are gone.
Us being strangers of the night
and enemies in hollow places.
Tourista prays to ooze juicily
at last round the bearded lips of God.
Tourista swallows sleep
and swallows deep.
Tourista lost in translation
between valley girl slang and punk rock idols.
Pushing pushing pushing, push em.
Tourista of the long white neck, neglected.
Free of love nibbles and nicotine kisses.
Though she longs for their ghosts
and strokes the scars of their cousins.
Her screaming, rolling head full of tinder and ready to ignite.
Like the loveliest of hand grenades.
Tourista who's heart swells and empties with the tides,
all Jackson Pollucked up inside.
The punch line of every joke. The object of every desire.
And tourista rattles with wheezing.
Tourista vacant. Accepting reservations.
Calling dimly she prays to the highway dogs
and hound dogs and squealing pups.
Tourista of the pure soul, sprinkling ****** lamplight
like vestal seeds.
Though she implores every living thing to dampen the flame.
Hold tight, says tourista, happiness is surely near.
But she hides it away in her bedside table and hopes she will forget.
May 19, 2013
May 19, 2013 at 1:41 AM UTC
Boys (all of them) are blank (and impossible to read (unless you know Braille (because touch is the only thing they respond to))) when mania strikes, step back. The words come flying off pages and peeling off the most beautiful greasy hair (catch yourself here or you'll regret it)(catch yourself here or you'll send away your pride via text message). Timing will always be off (and always your fault). Boys (all of them) smell like cigarettes and pine needles (even if they don't smoke (especially if they do)). Boys (all of them (all of them)) are delicious and contagious and a few hop steps (up or down) from a puppy (moderate hop steps). They'll disorient you with a maze of charm and a good bit of ignorance (until they don't buy your coffee (not that you wanted them to (but an offer would be nice (it's just polite)) because it might break your heart). (You might be overreacting though, so don't blame it all on them (all of them). (but it's your struggle (theirs is to resist your perfume and dainty ankles (or whatever they like (they've never told me))) to be frustrated and in awe all at once). Tell me (boys) is it torture (to be (correct be verb) so hyper aware(while we're on the topic I should remind you (all of them) this isn't spiteful (it's regret))? To be your own defeat? I've never felt this way (it's a matter of contradistinction). Cocky ******** (all of them).
Mar 16, 2013
Mar 16, 2013 at 12:47 PM UTC
This morning breakfast was two coconut macaroons
and a novelty- sized pecan pie.
All from the cafeteria.
When you’re going it alone, it’s the small things.
I can still hear the echoes of sleep as it recedes,
8AM, throaty yelps - panic -
and it slurps down the drain.
**** I’d give anything for a drain snake.
**** I’d give anything for black coffee
and a hood on this ******* coat.
Just above the below and below the upper,
I’m hovering somewhere in midfield.
But we didn’t cover this coordinate system in geography,
or what to do when you’re drowning
in waves of self-righteousness and the desire to be hip.
I need that hood. And probably new shoes.
When your roommate is an egg-shaped vampire
optimism can be hard to come by.
Her munching marks the stroke of midnight,
and I reach for the sleeping pills.
Oh for the perfumed winds of personal space.
Oh for the prairies of carpet and private bathrooms.
Oh to have hot water at 9PM.
Sing sweetly of home ye golden-thighed youths.
Feb 28, 2013
Feb 28, 2013 at 11:44 PM UTC
Hold tight to your half of the sky.
Wrap it in pretty charms if you like.
Give it lipstick and an 18’’ waist,
if you choose.
Leave hollows of neglect and pools of ancient shellac
in its heart.
It’s your half of the sky.
It probably deserves it.
Leave pearly clouds hanging
From its foggy lobes.
Fashion a lapis lazuli corset
And whisper sweet nothings.
Kiss her puddled neck.
Stepping out into the hot breath of night,
Is broiling clarity.
I’ll show you fear in a handful of dust,
terror in dusty eyes.
You call her the hyacinth girl,
But she’s the hanged man, sheltered in the shadows
Exchanging joy for a sip from the well of liquid eyeliner.
Half the sky
Is half too little.
Feb 28, 2013
Feb 28, 2013 at 11:31 PM UTC
There goes Morris Stonework and Ramada Inn which makes me think of Ramadan which reminds me I’m hungry. I can’t decide if I’d rather reminisce about your eyes or your ankles. You have cute ears too. I’m getting closer to you through money – give it a few more years and gird your ***** - it’s entirely possible to have one’s heartbroken even when one is expecting it. A surprise goodbye, almost mythical, with an audience of produce, I never recovered the breath that caught in my throat. Flying through southern North Carolina and fast women (the green hair. “Punk”) and the breath is beating out in pulses and centuries. It’s 38 miles until I lose everything. You can’t **** something that’s already dead so leave my soul alone (please). Sorry, I’m over reacting. “We quiver we quiver,” the grass says to the water. But I don’t know the riddle and the answer isn’t online. If you were wondering, I wish for you every day. My heart is an idiot (I’ll never take responsibility for what I can hide behind personification). Maybe I’ll start charging him rent. Looking for something to break? Dude, you’re a *** And my thoughts fly apart- Shall his sins be forgiven? Ice skating on frozen parking lots with army surplus coats. Mostly because we want the passing cars to say – how cool, how young, how willowy her thighs – But see there’s a problem, are you just in my head? The tinkling gypsy rhythm is carrying me away. Urgently comes the pad of bare feet and the swish of soft wrists. Coconut oil drinks me up. My stereo whispers, -the magic of ignorance is never knowing what came before these cookie-cutter houses.
Feb 1, 2013
Feb 1, 2013 at 12:16 AM UTC
It was just like Christmas,
A sunny star - far in the corner of the sky
Hiding as a small child, curled in a ball all tucked up and warm.
The hills were decorated with evergreen eyelashes
and the pounding red screen of eyelids.
It was just like a schoolgirl's daydream
to fling open the car door and grasp your sunny face like the jaws of life,
- you know I'd been growing out my nails ? -
to feel your porcelain skin beating - to rub the delicate china scenes
under my fingertips, and feel the silk robes of time gone by.
Some things are breakable.
I didn't know you were one.
I was young when I conjured you up,
when I mixed equal parts bone-running shivers,
and raised eyebrows.
I shimmied across my living room
and out of my nightgown,
like flipping a switch, I lit up your eyes.
You got me lipstick for Christmas that year.
I wrapped up tired metaphors, and said - I wish I could stay.
Sometimes I lie.
We started out as a quiet superstition, but I forgot to water our roots.
I wanted to give you goosebumps, but I forgot they leave scars,
and tiny webs married to my villainous fingertips.
You were angry - red like your tie
And I hid as a small child growing younger through the years:
The curious case of an anemic soul hiding in the curios cabinet -
you'll have seen it in theaters.
Too bad we weren't a cactus.
there are too many tricks I know.
I didn't realize the voice in my head could talk back.
Like I said,
I was young.
Jan 3, 2013
Jan 3, 2013 at 12:55 AM UTC
He smells like redbull and cigarettes.
He’s a quaint New England cottage
On a Paris street corner -
Crude smoke licking at the window panes
And cheap nylons stretched
Across bright stucco.
He’s the reason for a nice pair of underwear.
Sing oh muse!
Of the heavy-hearted
And her quest for elbow patches
And tortoise shell glasses.
A cloud of confusion from a whiff of cologne -
These are the moments when the crossroads
Is as plain as freckles
Or lipstick on a wine glass.
Propelled forward on roller skates
Called desire.
And white teeth gnawing on broken lips,
And we let desire swell and rattle around inside -
Until we will never be rid of the bruises.
Brick and clouds and red lace and muddy laces
And bruises.
Nov 15, 2012
Nov 15, 2012 at 9:46 PM UTC
If your voice were rain,
it would fall on my ready lips
so I could taste your drawling syllables,
and press my hot breath against
the mirror of your easy vowels.
If your eyes were two street lights
In the pregnant sleep of midnight.
They would be practically unchanged.
Though I would miss
the fringe of butterfly lashes
and the steady planes of your face.
If your legs were two rolling mountains,
I would climb up,
to sit safely in the valley of your thighs.
And with curls of your beard
and old, earthen magic
I could build a cozy mountain home.
Preferably with a wrap around porch
to admire the view.
If you were mine,
I would read you this poem.
Sep 29, 2012
Sep 29, 2012 at 10:51 PM UTC
We are both quite majestic
- if you think about it.
if you think about arrows mid-flight
and pretty white windmills
and the smell of biscuits.
Can I tell your fortune?
let pearls roll over your love line,
and sweat fill your upper mars.
-*The hanged man
with one inverted eye
amid the tall grass,
amid hissing black beetles,
and a strange green glow* -
We are both quite beautiful,
and perhaps mysterious.
We become half human
(if we were ever whole)
Below us the forest grows
dewy and so new Gaia forgot the price tag
but we are old souls.
Aug 23, 2012
Aug 23, 2012 at 2:01 AM UTC
He is from the land of old souls,
from the land of the willows and ****** beer
that spills over
in manifold growths like old men's beards
or the **** that covers my living room -
a damp jungle for nightmares
and someday the final battle.
He is from the land of disclaimers,
and disbelievers,
and organic fruits.
Haikus they called pop
and he calls my eyes his muse.
The wine is self preservation
for he is from the land of do little, very little, wrong.
Where they grow the hot clarity I breath in
and weave the milky wanderings
through everything at once.
And I think of the orange lace,
like a 70s ******* bunny.
The crystal goblet that caught the light
and my lips -
but mostly the lace.
Jul 10, 2012
Jul 10, 2012 at 3:31 PM UTC