How something so sacred,
so beautiful,
began in clouds of
shameful, smoking sin-
the smell of charred barbecue-
no one can know.
We'd take turns in dreams,
waking up lonely
as our other selves,
until he found me
like fate was a bowling ball,
striking down my defenses like pins.
In secret we share blood-
vampires with needles-
and later our hearts dance
like the flames in our gaze,
while the Sky clips the wings
of mourning doves,
and sticky blood runs down our throats.
UFOs come with the midnight
and take us, sew us
together.
We're in a bubble,
an island outside time,
crying the same tears
of ecstasy.
Our souls are a cloud
between us and
we ring with crystal clarity,
praying this embrace holds,
despite the weathering of years,
and that sharing the same blood means
our love will remain immortal.
Mar 11, 2014
Mar 11, 2014 at 9:06 PM UTC
You’d never guess
By eavesdropping
To the vapid colloquialisms
Of your neighbors, your co-workers
That 5 open sores fester upon our mother’s face,
5 gyres,
(even the word is disgusting),
of floating plastic,
tangle and strangle the warm wombs of our seas,
stretch out at the horizons like blankets of melanoma.
Livid and neon infection
Drips, seeps, spreads from Fukushima,
Genociding the Pacific—3,000 nautical miles
Devoid of breath or heartbeat,
Save a lonely whale with tumors
Full of hot dog coupons and carpet cleaning flyers.
Jan 14, 2014
Jan 14, 2014 at 6:40 PM UTC
I am convinced
that I'm a tourist on this planet,
in this body.
Things like knowing where my legs are,
or existing in the company of a spider,
shouldn't be such causes for
bewilderment and hysteria,
but they are.
And this is besides my awkwardness
with other human beings.
I attribute this to their being tourists too.
Why else would they take lots of pictures
and leave garbage everywhere?
It's like our bus broke down,
and we're surviving in ramshackle forts,
looking out with binoculars
and waving flags made of Hawaiian shirts.
It must be appalling,
and not a little shocking,
to the natives.
Quiet and peaceful, the plants and animals
watch us from a distance,
at once unnerved and giggling
just a little bit,
as they watch us stumble about
and run shrieking from the spiders.
Sep 13, 2013
Sep 13, 2013 at 7:41 PM UTC
A beast,
only a little frightening, a little wicked.
Only as much as possessed
by demons in Scotland.
I don't know if it was just
the cocaine-induced acid-psychosis,
or if we really swapped lives,
and shared with Burroughs in the Sahara.
In any case,
we share the joke of sacrificing children
in repetitious ritual.
We fiends, we leprous pariahs,
who know too much to be safe,
and too little to be truly dangerous.
Jul 23, 2013
Jul 23, 2013 at 7:48 PM UTC
When I speak,
my eyebrows tell their own story,
filling in the details.
Even when I try my hand
at tact, striving for
porcelain politeness,
my eyebrows loiter in dark corners,
gossiping.
Living with two feral beasts
on one’s face
requires discipline
just short of a chainsaw.
In private I must
chisel & furrow,
for these miniature sculptures,
these Michelangelo topiaries.
This isn’t vanity.
This is protecting a pious public
from a lecherous, libidinous wolf.
For me, leaving the house and
participating in pleasantries,
daily interactions, is enough of a
Leviathan leech loading my back
without seditionist caterpillars
millimeters from munching my eyes out.
It’s for me that I tweeze,
for one only PLUCKS chickens,
that row of hair
which runs the length of my brow.
For me, for my comfort in
social negotiations.
I also do it for you,
if only to keep you from
flinching in fear
as my eyebrows defy
my utmost efforts
at not offending you.
Jun 18, 2013
Jun 18, 2013 at 6:59 PM UTC
My love of poetry is too great
for Philosophy, physics to glue the skin under my toes
to the floor.
A waif, only dandelion fluff,
I tease the turbid puddles
of wearying intellect.
Life is too beautiful
to compartmentalize,
to classify,
to set unsurmountable borders
on the pleasure that only poets and hopeless romantics comprehend.
Disoriented sight/smell/taste/touch/hearing-
backwards rainbows and the upside-down
scent of oatmeal cookies,
the melancholy of a forever-stilled honey bee,
are more golden than yellow metal,
and certain
more knowledge than a heaping pile
of doctors/lawyers/senators/scientists.
reality's only denizens
are Dreamers.
Jul 11, 2012
Jul 11, 2012 at 5:54 PM UTC
Twice. onetwo.
INDEPENDENT.
Why not?
NeverbeforehaveIbeen.
Get
in
line.
Put on your wool coat.
And
Get
back
in
line.
Dye your hair to match your
neighbor's car.
A sweet
summer
bluesky.
Drive until your rubber kisses the neighbor's curb.
Jump out and
GET
BACK
IN
LINE
Jul 11, 2012
Jul 11, 2012 at 5:53 PM UTC
Teen angst poetry
dribbled in red pen.
Well, ideally.
I only have black type.
In fact, I never have experienced
teen angst. I only have
the perpetual piece of blackandred
corners me alone
The beast beneath my bed ceases
whenever daddy checks
but I never had a daddy
only a mommy valiantly battling the
blackandred demons her daddy
never scared away either.
and in the
end we feel nothing nothing can
touch us. We are the empty rusty
pail crying out from the Dripdripdrip of
our loneliness because no one comes in
because, in the foggy glass, no one can see each other
and coldandclammy jostling elbows
do Not touch- NeverNever
We hope the redhot heart of the
lovers we hold so closely will defrost
our windshields to the world and let in
Lightlovehopejoyhappiness
Contentment
AND THEN
I have hope enough
that the monsterinmycloset
cannot grip my dangling elbow. Hope that the steep
fall of bladeandblood and littleroundpills
Always stays a few feet away
I call and pray for stray sunbeams.
Later- I pull
out the quicksilver shards of glass
from my eyes and under my polluted
fingernails.
I shrug off their sodden coats.
I won't borrow burdens. Anymore.
So that my light may shine encore
Abeaconpillar of radiance
Est deus in nobis
Jul 11, 2012
Jul 11, 2012 at 5:53 PM UTC
A mysterious asymmetry
for a mirror.
A passing fancy-
maybe
I should jump in
and risk silver shadows of glass
in my throat or drowning in the tepid
pool which never was
a mirror.
One wonders at the Other.
Too timid to reach out
and hold the Other's hand.
The dread of grey disappointment
is too heavy to stir, but the
canary in One's throat longs
to test the air. Patience
was never One's virtue. One feels
more prone to
anguish.
Extend your hand and I will not
let you fall.
A grasp of relief.
One and the Other both
free from marble waiting and
free also from the
emotiondeath of
the mirror.
andsowewait
Jul 11, 2012
Jul 11, 2012 at 5:52 PM UTC
The pin is frozen
inches from the floor.
But I am deaf anyway.
Not to mention
the photoshop desaturation
of life.
I'm stuck.
At that place-
the top of the ferris wheel.
The pinheads are lackluster
and dead.
Jul 11, 2012
Jul 11, 2012 at 5:51 PM UTC