The navy blue evening sky cut out by the black silhouette of trees. The moths fluttering under the moon. The way all trees bristle one another. The courage when on the first date she laid her hand on his knee. The comfort of hollow churches. The emptiness and then everywhere something. The anonymous scent of ripeness in the air. The feeling of energy realizing itself.
Those nights when the stars
are hidden by clouds
as big as your heart.
Jan 6, 2016
Jan 6, 2016 at 9:07 PM UTC
receptivity
moon yawns out day
flames flicker the dawn
con-scious-ness
rises in drowning
and bubbles up again
“here now child,”
it echos, “just feel feelings”
and the adult resists
seasons color change
blue years to red seconds
head into sunlight heaven
divine intuition speaks
out of in our hearts
essence of expanding
a single lopsided wilt rose
the metamorphosis of
a dreamer who is not here
old man in the old cafe
he reads all day
long pauses pleasing
soggy California
a deer framed by headlights
predator and prey
water cleanses me
rapids under rope bridges
wind chimes of I, I, I…
the more I relax
water cleanses I of me
the more you will see
my smirk in the light
like waves lap on distant shores
****** mermaids; higher kites
Dec 4, 2015
Dec 4, 2015 at 3:09 PM UTC
Burn the way money burns,
clear into ash our feelings glow.
You could write a book through me through you.
You could be my father when winter is snow.
Me, like some precious stone, I sink,
like the one I grasp around the nape of my neck,
the turquoise one with the ivory glow,
some symbols are lost but this one grows.
You, like some enchanting pond, you pool
hard like truth, like summer out of school,
colors blend the songs of you,
and speak to me though an invisible ear.
You're bouyant and I float on my elbows,
inching to gaze down the deep end of me.
But you feel the whiplash of my current
first red hot, the cauldron of morning, then blue.
Your eyes get hard and lidless;
you're a cyclone off the South Pacific of my heart.
I hear you wailing wind into me.
You sound like the bagpipes of my life.
You think I don't know,
the weight of me in the pool of you
but even a fool can see, thats not true,
because the myth of me is found in you.
Mar 26, 2015
Mar 26, 2015 at 8:22 PM UTC
*Reality is a tissue;
a sneezing factory.
When you sneeze,
you lose sight of everything.
Reality is like a tissue;
frail, almost there, then totally
out of sight.*
Feb 16, 2015
Feb 16, 2015 at 10:54 PM UTC
Heavy
like a chest
A single tear
Just a hand
cupping a mouth
catching the fear
At night
she likes to run
It’s the moon
Heavy
like the universe
she’s alone
Just a sweat
dripping down her back
pooling and then gone
A savage girl
her wild auburn hair
twirling and then gone
Nov 6, 2014
Nov 6, 2014 at 1:30 PM UTC
The world hangs on a thin thread,
the psyche of the mind.
And lets be honest,
we know nothing of it.
The way in which a person behaves,
is indicative of an archetype,
a way of presenting oneself.
But what if that self is so sensitive to rejection,
it rejects itself consciously,
with such fearlessness it assumes a fluid
transformation of self.
Patterns of energy from which everything is drawn,
from which everything is made.
It acts as others would like it to appear
as it has seen their hidden fantasies in and of another,
all because it does not believe it is who it appears to be,
all because it feels who it appears to be.
Jul 16, 2014
Jul 16, 2014 at 2:56 PM UTC
My coworker speaks in idioms,
he says he's true blue, I say, yeah,
like red and white and wayward too.
People like that are a dime a dozen:
cheap, until outlived: a legend in his own mind,
always drawing out to kids.
When I speak to him, I hear his thunder,
Come again? Speak up sister! His reaction -
like a flash in a pan, because, because,
I could not listen, as the story goes, any bit - faster.
Jan 29, 2014
Jan 29, 2014 at 11:20 PM UTC
I have left, pig-mudding drunk,
having sipped from stock to stock on fraying cheer, stages.
I have stood in foreign basements; sweaty cellars of youth;
begot by attitude breeding spaces of the hip;
drawn circles searching for love in recreating nonsense:
a silly pupil, moon-eyed, out of breathe.
I have heard them quack, reveal their cords;
heard them whisper a thousand and one secrets,
heard them deconstruct their circumstances as pilgrims, penniless and sick.
I have their memories now, an image of a depressed,
ass-imprinted pillow soaked in liquor and a feeling of nausea
where ribs sleep on this couch tonight, every night.
I have heard one refute the weight of living, ******
on the banks of his best friends hospitality, and thought
How much is it worth?
And I have envied every **** greasy pored hipster,
the ones fixing on makingitnew now kind of clan; stared blankly at fashion,
a culture back door where pink fish scales sparkle high from runway halters
to the tops of grown men, bearded and chesty.
And your mothers pearls sit, not your mother’s pearls but your mother’s, mother’s pearls,
that old world clout ornamented around those hairy *******
Oh yes, I have seen men become peacocks, charmed animals of **********
seen them teeth at discourse in the noise they create, wide-mouthed and pointed;
I have seen them masked like frantic felines: wooly bully cats trying-to-roll their own meter,
their tobacco stained black charcoal over soft bricked lips quiver to their beats:
those painted lemmingings, without a parachute: kamikaze felons.
I have desired absolute sterility: white china,
in the egg of a toilet bowl I spewed out, shut-up my exuberance for the night;
sorry-pleaded my resolutions to gag out the naughty nouns in my life.
I have quit; turned in my lust for performing the lioness, paw-licking,
snarly creature: the predator of my youth, and now,
I am pretty-headed, tamed in bath oils and schedules;
a spotted fox, in plain view, one medium-sized mammal getting by.
Feb 3, 2013
Feb 3, 2013 at 5:05 PM UTC
****** a self bone love
where only crystal skulls *****
in morphine harbors of youth.
Penetrate the gentle pink dawn
of dead days hanging -
moon rising red mouth, half-open.
Savor the metallic ******* ragtime
of cold handsome lips.
Razz the fluid glutted
plop of fossil *****
Slip the light, hot licks, squid squirm
tight snarl back to spread-eagle rising.
Gnaw at the fresh goose-pimpled flesh
in tribes of sweat crossing.
See the green railwayed eyes,
half-smile sprouting.
Urge spasms to go slack, end-to-end
like hair bellies over, shudders run-
down one foot flutters, fluid waves drop.
Flash on the swamp cypress relief
as the **** sputters out
and faded pink curtains heave.
Allow the bring down roll.
The two planes, silent park
like some ***** bed repose.
Sep 30, 2012
Sep 30, 2012 at 12:45 PM UTC
I am barely a mineral now, not yet a woman in the ground,
not yet growing gardens and begging people to cook my peppers.
My home is dizzy from my constant re-entry, which helps me to cheat,
in life I am looking for the harvest in people. I am a thread of cotton pulling
every word like it is more porous than the next, which helps me.
I summersault through conversations rather read in sharpie,
on the last corner white space of bathroom stalls,
alone and blushed. I remember love like a tagline inviting a smile
and messages to strangers. When I look in the mirror I am always inhaling,
my mouth says O, O I am out of excuses. I tell everyone I’m tired of working,
which helps me to hide in my comet ways. I am tight-lined,
which is to say I feel love on the hairs of my arms, the wind,
the blades of fans speak to me at night when I have nothing left to say.
I am licensed to moving. In the dark in the cities public spaces and
also in alleyways I am soft like a moonbeam. I am convinced the world is a sewer,
which helps me to explain the exchange of waste and skin and the secrets hidden
in tunnels of shadows. When I move the world blurs with me like a heartbeat.
I am underground like the sewer, rotten in negative spaces, which helps me,
to hear the echo ripple swish of every piece of trash call my name.
I have no response. Some days the world is too ***** One day I will learn
to quilt and stitch together every important face, which will help me
to remember my grandmother and how she loved to balloon to the sky.
I dream she is a large magellanic cloud beaming out of the universe, the force
of believing is the word Hallelujah sung from the lips of Leonard Cohen.
It is midnight. It is noon. I close my eyes for a second and I see myself as miles
from the moon. I am running every day now and there is nothing left to see. My heart
is a kitchen door swinging and it does not want to stop.
Sep 20, 2012
Sep 20, 2012 at 12:30 AM UTC