it’s one of those mornings
where I just want to run,
mama.
I get up, only to
brush my teeth,
comb the knots out of my hair,
and put on dainty heels
(to make dainty gestures
to important men
in business apparel)
and spend eight hours
using my false eyelashes,
bright voice,
and candied lips
to appease the disgruntled populace.
my inner goddess flails her arms
recklessly, bruising my heart,
my lungs,
my stomach,
my soul,
her cage.
every day
I hear her sobs
emanating from my core.
is this what you raised me to be, mama?
a little bit of a
slave to the system
and sucker for the city?
if I were to throw it all away,
what would they call me?
what would they do to me,
were I to abandon
my heels for bare feet
melting into the damp Earth?
like some ancient character
in a brilliant mythology
I want to let it all burn
just to rise from the ashes
all over again.
Oct 5, 2012
Oct 5, 2012 at 10:50 AM UTC
honey hair and milky skin,
I go well with green tea
on sunday afternoons,
when your lover goes to the city
and you need someone to talk to.
like a **** in your herb garden
I will be hard to get rid of
and leave an ugly little space
where there was once life.
you will cast me out
but I will still sit on the borderlands
of Babylon.
for I have not sinned,
I have not sinned,
brother.
deep in the dark sands of night
I feel safe and secure
even the haunting taunts
of the dead sea swallows
do not instill fear within me,
for my light can cast out darkness
but darkness cannot cast out light.
Oct 5, 2012
Oct 5, 2012 at 10:50 AM UTC
yoga poses in the dark,
recycling the exhales
as if they were
shreds of napkin scraps
riddled in ink.
what good is man
without a muse?
what good is light
without shadow?
these blinds are like
deep cuts in my dreams
with all their weapons unsheathed
as I wade in the seize
of your shaking.
sipping soy milk out of a
plastic straw,
my legs like vines
twirling, twisting, writhing
under cotton clothes
I can see the stones they've thrown
leaving bruises on my
monotone throat.
you are whiskey
and I am wine
they don't taste nice
together
but they work just right.
the last hit of that cigarette
in your old apartment
as your broad shoulders held up
my legs
and you carried me to the balcony
so we could watch the sun rise
what a ride
what a ride
what a ride
Jan 17, 2012
Jan 17, 2012 at 11:27 PM UTC
there's one thing I will never forget,
when a man tells you things like
"I like good clothes, fast cars,
whiskey,
and you."
run as far as your heels will take you,
hell,
take the first train to
some city in the middle of nowhere
shed your fur coat and fishnets
for some red flannel and boots.
there is nothing more dangerous
than the fancy of a man.
my mother always told me that,
when she'd brush out my taut blonde curls
into thin, sleek waves.
she brushed my hair that way until
my ******* grew humble and my legs
felt more like fins, slicing through the cold winters
and hot summers like a pair of scissor blades
dancing on the wind,
like my growing dreams, as a poet, an old soul, and a woman.
I remember the first time I tasted sin
was in the back of that old bar in Arkansas
taking shots of whiskey and dancing
in the hot moonlight
my summer dress slipped off as we fell
off the dock
two bodies fumbling through the folds
of icy water, your hands pressing mine into your stomach, screaming
crisply through the dark of night
"can you feel the beating of my heart?"
mama took me to church and washed your name out of my mouth
with song and scripture, tied me to the altar
and wouldn't let me run.
now I'm always running, running from her, running to you,
my legs more like fins, once again
slicing through hotel sheets, hot baths, and
my dreams, lord, my dreams
simply aged nightmares
those complex beasts await me here
one more whiskey, love,
and I swear
I will find you.
Jan 5, 2012
Jan 5, 2012 at 11:38 PM UTC