Crawling night, pale moon.
We bury him tomorrow.
Precious innocent.

You are not here.
I can not touch you.
I can no longer walk between
the two peonies on my way to
your porch.
The peonies are there, but it is no longer
your house.
How many times did I mow that lawn?  
Keep it tight to the tree,
round and round the peonies.
Good boy J.J.
God how I hated that nickname.

I see you now,
at your desk in the corner,
pall mall burning
in your shoe shaped ashtray,
crossword puzzle folded neatly
and your glasses half on your nose.

You were the toughest woman I know.

" Was ist los, Wer ist da?"

"It's me Gram"

I'd come around the corner and you would look at me over your glasses.
I could always tell what I was gonna get from you by the looks on your face.  
None of us have poker faces.

Even if I got the head shake of disapproval, there was always a hint of a smile, a smirk.
I know I was your favorite.
I got away with ******.
  
In your grey stuccoed rooms
I found my sexuality,
I tried to end my life,
I cried,
I ******,
I watched others battle until bloodied
and
I fought many
of my own battles
in front of your fireplace.
I saw a family blossom,
unfolding layer after layer
of beauty,
death,
secrets
and joy.

I saw strong men crumble in your dining room.

Countless were the times I would hang around on the fringes of conversations,
unobtrusive, but ever observant I was.
I learned so much from your phone calls, your conversations.

I think of when I have been the happiest
and it was when I was being tucked in by you
up in the king room.

My belly full,
freshly bathed,
the smell of avon's skin-so-soft,
clean sheets
and the softest pillows
in the world.
I was safe.
I was loved.

Waking up to
bacon and
french toast and
apple butter and
captain kangaroo and
your creaky stairs,
I have never had it as good as that.
You made the best french toast ever.

And then I got older and taller.
My marks on the measuring wall kept creeping up and up.
I got closer to
uncle mikes and
butch and...
was big jim on there?

I grew into a ****** little teenager,
I went from asking you for candy money,
to concert tshirt money
to bail money.
Through it all, you were there for me.
I would show up,
head down and repentant,
ready for my berating.
I wonder how different my life would have been had you not been around
as long as you were?

That day when my dad
came and took me
when I didn't want to go,
I kept looking back
and crying for you,
You said it always broke your heart, that look.

That was my introduction to manipulation.

It was in your basement
I found the steaming remains of debauchery.
I met most of my demons
for the first time
in the shadows
of the mighty sycamores
on Lincoln Boulevard.

You are not here.
I can not touch you.
You died and we fell apart, all of us.
We barely hang on,
it seems.
Your children squabble and flounder still.
Alliances formed
and broken
and rediscovered again.
Silly, this constant ebb and flow of intimacy.
Blood is thick, right?

We are doing ok though, I promise.
You would be so proud of us, I swear.

Our kids are happy
and we teach them words
like deetdeedles and shoisel.
I still make french toast your way
and Anne's house has the measuring wall.

I still do crosswords,
I love words, because of you.
I write, I  live, thanks to you.

The willow tree is gone
but the peonies are still there.

Ich leibe dich, Gramma.

Bent over cold granite, my left hand gripping your hair while simultaneously holding your neck down; my right hand hovers above your quivering, beautiful ***.

This is our forever

SMACK!

That was harder than you thought it would be,
your gasp and shrill "Oh"
makes me rise and swell.

37 huh?

Earlier, you had no idea why I asked you to pick a number between five and one hundred. Now, you feel the significance of your answer in your burning cheeks.


SMACK!!
SMACK SMACK SMACK

My arm becomes a windmill
of pain as I count off the numbers in my head.
Your gasps have turned to sobbing,
your honey is dripping
and my **** is granite.

*Welcome to subspace

Flaming fuckery
Egos clash between keystrokes
I can only laugh

Brotherhood tainted
Enemies bloom from strangers
**** yeah, internet!

Go **** your mothers
We can all be crass, so what?
Free speech is not free

I said I would not
Involve myself with drama
But look at me now

**** all this **** man
I come here to write, not fight
But some people ****

I'm sure some of you
Are counting my syllables
Does it matter man?

I write bad haiku
Lots and lots of bad haiku
This is one of them

See what I did there?
It is more than syllables
Go break haiku rules

You know who you are!
Trouble makers, muckrakers
Sensitive poets

Sick, mean little boy
Spitting her venomous words
I knew we were doomed

Here and now, alone.
Missing you, empty again.
I ******* love you.

Dark hair, milky thighs

We are all such broken things

Deep in the Nothing.

Some *****,
loose shoes,
and a warm place
to ****.

Half eaten chocolates mingle with dead leaves
as wood floors yearn for elbows
and I crave the fluids
of Paradise
dripping like sweet nectar
from
your vile and wretched

Gate to Hell.

I was raised by bruises and beatings
so you can go cry on someone else's
shoulders, victim. Better yet, come here
and gimme whats mine, *****.

Offended? Don't be.
It's life.
Sweet, sensuous, violent life.
If you are one of those
that think people are inherently
good,
think again.
Watch people under pressure.

Flowers of flesh, blood.
Bell jars breed suffocation,
So much to tell me.

Dead eyes and black blood,
demons clamor for feeding.
Gorging on my gods.

Cicadas creating a cacophony,
emerald leaves gracing limbs
centuries old; the park is alive.

Neighbors walking dogs, rumbling
home after a long work week, a lively game of tennis is being played across the way.

I should feel...
good
happy
content
calm
something

You can do it now, if you want.
Get ****** up,
****** over,
Stepped on,
****** with
and just plain ******.

Right in your ***, if you want.

You can wallow and writhe
in miserys mud, carve a new scar
and think it's all your fault,
If you want.

You can even throw a bag
of your body parts into the river,
if that's your kind of happy.
You can do it now, if you want.

You can drop the false smiles
and start telling these mother *******
how it really is, also.

It's ok to drop a little venom in the tea
because these ***** have ****** on the carpet
too many times and nobody likes
a loud mouth drunk *****.

Some just have it coming and I'm ok with being the one that gives it to them.
Because I can.
So can you, if you want.

So if it's a toss up between
getting ****** or
rising above,
bend over ***** because
I'm not letting you
stand in my way.

My blood runs thick
for those I love.
If you are mine
you feel it in your bones
and I am the sound
of sugar that makes you wet.

Brushing long gray fur
Heavy boy, your purr soothes me
Dearest feline friend

Cold, dark night. Birdsong.
Shattering silent torture.
Thank you, feathered friend.

*******, sycophants
Obsequious mosquitos
Blatant fuckery

Dead eyes, painted skin.
Crush armies, write love sonnets.
Poet warrior.

Nocturnal bloodlust.
Pale Luna cries tears of stone.
He drowns in her fruits.

Bloodstained parchments.
Broken oaths.
Chiseled granite
with
promises
weightless as shadows.

But still we lie.

Wading in  the great nothing,
waist deep in murky inks,
wandering
sightless, senseless,
I feel my way.

Memories of grey skin,
black blood.
******* wrapped in ropes,
cherry blossoms
and alcohol.

Still we love our bruises.
  
Blind and cold
in the nothing,
we feel our way.

Blood.
So much blood.
Bright red against her pale skin,
and his wood floors.

Crumpled, a heap on the floor,
she bleeds and moans, ruined.

Mechanisms years in the wanting, seconds to bloom,
he gave her the love she thought was dead.

Even the ones that know how to
take a big **** sometimes
bleed, just not this much.

So much blood.

Strange feelings inside.
Rotting from the inside out.
These feelings, they ****.

Listen buttercup,
This is just the way it is.
Now do what I said.

Day blooms; morning fog
Dreams die, fading to shadows
Cold nights, forgotten.

My cherry blossoms.
Gather slowly, my precious,
the day is long, here.

Traffic hums away.
Open windows bring forth songs.
My city, singing.

An electric blue hand
reaches out to him
from across an ocean
of thick water as Luna
undresses for all to see.

He doesn't hesitate
to embrace this stranger
from a strange land.

This dark and violent ocean
between their mouths,
with it's terrible secrets and
crushing indifference,
is no match for the
smell of her ink
on her paper
in his hands.

This now.

The milk of your skin,
punctuated by the midnight in
your hair,
pours over my open wounds
until you wash away my insides.

My guts, your home.

I never wanted you to
live without my blood on your hands
because, let's be honest,
your bruises make me hard
and my suffering soaks
your sheets.

This now,
I am the blade
that does not cut.
You are the bleeding moon
hiding in the shadows
of our ancient desires.

This now,
we **** each
other
to death.

With stones in my eyes
and your flesh
between my teeth,
I rot a little more.

My plants weep and wander
as I try to
conjure your smells
from the cold.

Grey is the color of your skin
and the night is thick
with our black blood.

Closing my eyes,
breathing deep,
my hands remember
the curve of your hip
and the miles between us
are molecules.

Another breath and
amber fills my mouth.
Tea bags drying
and good whiskey
with limes
and lilac
and bleach
and mastiffs
and skin
all burn in me now
with enough heat
to tighten the flesh
around my ribs.

I cannot stand this empty
air and the weight
of our nothing
has stamped me flat.

No cherry blossoms here
as the lies
cover the soil,
poisoning the root.

Another breath,
my head tilts back
and mouth opens
in remembrance of our sacrament.

Cold night, razors edge;
Changing paradigms, by force.
Life is violent.

Waking to you in the crook of my arm;
the smell of us lingers in the crime scene
of our room.

This must be the place

Wigs and corsets,
empty bottles and riding crops.
Sugar and sweat,
cologne and *******.

Good morning sugar

Eyes flutter and lips part
as juices flow and bloods boil.
This wet and wordless union
knows no boundaries.

*We are one, now

With a warm glow
around my tired bones,
I feel the chemicals
slowly take effect.

It's ok with me, precious,
if you think I'm ugly.
I'll love you just the same.

My hands knew your skin
before we ever touched lips
because you are missing from me.

It's ok my dear,
if we never live
I'll love you just the same.
It's the honey on your lips
that keeps me on my knees.

Stop cutting.

I get it, life hurts.

You want to feel, something.

You would rather watch your own blood seep out of your body from a self inflicted wound, than experience the hurt you have inside.

I get it. Stop cutting.

You choose to hurt yourself because you are overwhelmed by the pain you have caused another person, even if it was unintentional. The thought of that person whom you have such strong feelings for, suffering because of your actions or in-actions, is almost unbearable.

I get it. Stop cutting.

You don't know what to make of your situation. You don't know how a person like you could end up in such a ****** up scene. You feel stuck, lost.

I get it. I do.
Stop cutting.

Your parents ****. They don't understand the kind of **** you are going through. Sure they were kids once but that was different. Things were different back then. They don't get you and they probably never will. They don't care.

I get it. Stop cutting.

You really want to hurt yourself because you get off on the pain. You want it. You need it. You deserve it. You were put on this earth to suffer and you accept your role as martyr.

I get it. Truly, I do.
Stop cutting.

You need some sort of release. Something, anything. Anything but the consuming black,
nothing. The sweet release that only a razor can provide is the only thing that seems real to you amidst all of the drama.

I get it.
Stop cutting.



There is chaos in your life and the secret solitude provided by your ritual seems like an oasis.

I get it. Stop cutting.

You like the way your skin splits open.  You like the way you can touch the cuts underneath your clothes. You like the way the scars remind you.

I get it.
Stop cutting.

The love of your life has abandoned you, leaving a void that nobody will ever fill. Ever.
You are completely and utterly alone.

Life *****.

I get it.

You however, are beautiful,
inside and out,
scars and everything,
and you are not as alone as you think.


Please,
Please,
Please,
Stop cutting.

Blood in all the right places.

Your square ******* head
looks just the same,
a little older maybe,
some new lines around the edges.

Still the same crazy shine in your eyes.

Years later the same traces,
barely discernible
to the unknowing,
of earlier
disgusting
scenarios
being played out
in your living room.

I  smell the rancid
sweat of old men.

I  taste the curdled,
sour milk
of your breath,
recently begging for
alms.
I hear your hands
pleading whisper,
palms
being offered up
as your eyes
lower.

He owns you.

In our astral oasis
the scorpion and the fish
have no secrets.

The shadows have been buried
under rocks on the bottom
of our stream
and
time is always now,
distance is always here.

Here and now,
I feel your fingertips
in the warm evening air.
Fingers on hands I've never held.

I hear these hands
writing a letter,
sliding across the paper
leaving whispers on the leaves
and fingerprints on
the ancient roots.

Sweet woman,
in your mountain's embrace
I see you cry alone.
I long to be at your bedside
but my ways are treacherous,
and my time is short.

I give you as much as I have
to offer.

Precious girl,
I feel the heat of your devotion
through the miles.
I long to be between your thighs,

but my skin is cold
and my time is short.

Dead eyes, rotting bones
Skeletons hold no secrets
The river gives all

You are going to die
before me.

I already know this.

You are going to get fat
and go completely blind
and probably,
eventually, they will
cut some parts off.

You are going to fall apart
in front of me.

I know this.

I still choose to stay.
I will be there
through all the appointments,
the stickings and pokings and cuttings and bleedings.

I have only wiped
a few *****
in my life.
Mine,
my son's,
a few babies
of friends.

I already plan on wiping yours
when you cannot.

I will draw
little sugar skulls
on your prosthetic feet.

I will make sure you always have enough medicine and it is always refrigerated.
I will help you
in and out
of the bathtub.
I will massage your legs
and arms
and back
and head
and neck,

every day.

I will make our boys breakfast
and walk the dogs
and make sure everything
goes back in the
same exact spot
and keep a file with all the pertinent medical information
so I can fill out all the paperwork.

I will take you to
all those folk rock shows you love so much
and describe the singers to you.

We will still garden together.
I can see you in a chair,
barking out questions
about our harvest and me,
going back and forth,
bringing you the biggest squash
to hold.

You see, I have given up thinking
I am ever going to
give myself to anyone else.

It is you and you alone.

So, when you start to fall apart,
and you will fall apart,
don't worry baby.
I am going to be there to wipe your ***.

You are going to die
before me.

I already know this.

You are going to get fat
and go completely blind
and probably,
eventually, they will
cut some parts off.

You are going to fall apart
in front of me.

I know this.

I still choose to stay.
I will be there
through all the appointments,
the stickings and pokings and cuttings and bleedings.

I have only wiped
a few *****
in my life.
Mine,
my son's,
a few babies
of friends.

I already plan on wiping yours
when you cannot.

I will draw
little sugar skulls
on your prosthetic feet.

I will make sure you always have enough medicine and it is always refrigerated.
I will help you
in and out
of the bathtub.
I will massage your legs
and arms
and back
and head
and neck,

every day.

I will make our boys breakfast
and walk the dogs
and make sure everything
goes back in the
same exact spot
and keep a file with all the pertinent medical information
so I can fill out all the paperwork.

I will take you to
all those folk rock shows you love so much
and describe the singers to you.

We will still garden together.
I can see you in a chair,
barking out questions
about our harvest and me,
going back and forth,
bringing you the biggest squash
to hold.

You see, I have given up thinking
I am ever going to
give myself to anyone else.

It is you and you alone.

So, when you start to fall apart,
and you will fall apart,
don't worry baby.
I am going to be there to wipe your ***.

Soil, mulch and flora.
Odors of spring on bodies.
Peonies ripen.

*****'s  mouth on **** face
******* her way to freedom
Enslaved by the taste