Eve convinced Adam
to eat forbidden fruit
in the Garden of Eden

Helen of Troy's face
launch'd a thousand ships,
her lips instigating warfare

Sumptuous curvatures of
women's hips and bossom
lure honorable men to disgrace

How dare that trollop
where a pair of trousers
accentuating her buttocks!

The micro-hemline
corralled a wandering eye
to the elegant calve muscle

The female figure is
warmth and seduction,
yet devilish and misleading

History and myth
reaffirming sweet satisfaction,
but reeking of disaster

tonight she is
tip-toeing
on
little peach teacups,
teetering
on tiny saucer plates,
and
relishing the
somber chimes
left on their delicate
frames

her toes
embroider doilies of the
Universe,
her smile a beam
of
Light
exuding from
a bewildered heart

from
setting to setting
she samples a
taste
of little cakes and cucumber sandwiches
before her,
but
continues
to float
over the tableware
until she meets
the warm embrace
of
morning's
sweet release

soft dawn electrifying the stillness of night

heated humans reduced into one puddle

the sound of breath escaping slumber

silky fingers gingerly trailing muscle

a slice of toast swaddled in milk fat

this lazy morning is sweet like butter

Undulations of feathers
in waves of gray and black.
Rubber feet plodding,
beaks pecking the ground
for unseen morsels.
Incessant honking and barking
encompasses the life
of absurd bird folk.
They're ******* on the sidewalk.
They **** everywhere, really

a water droplet
plummeting
towards a marble bath tub
screams eerie echoes
into emptiness

an hourglass
vomits a thick,
square stream of
a million grains of sand
right back into it's own belly

a dryer machine
bullies and beats
white cotton through
turbulent cycles
of hot air

a spiritless woman
vigilant of repetition
and forgotten items
to occupy
her idle mind

Hunched over the stove top,
meticulously folding melted chocolate
over and over itself
in infinite tides of glossy excellence.
Incorporating yolks into sugar
whips a wholesome protein
into sweet thick ribbons
that tumble from their metal beaters.
Milk and cocoa powder whisked
until ominous brown clouds
explode into the sky.
The slow incorporation of pieces
climaxes into a smooth custard,
so **** and luscious
you'll lick it off your own fingers.
Any attention that can be
drawn to your mouth is
good attention,
particularly that of homemade ice cream.

Sitting here with you tonight
has given me
the clarity I desperately needed.

That the ride of life
will carry on
regardless of if I am
strapped into my seat or not.

That I am
directionless
for the first time
and I have no idea why or how
I am to carry on.

That despite your warm body
nestled closely into mine,
you really don't give a **** about me.
We may be talking intimately
like friends do,
but this relationship we share
is nothing close to friendship.

So now I must make the decision:
to let the truth weigh me down
or allow it to carry me above the clouds
and start anew

It's 2:00 AM now...
I think I'll just go home

Pine trees as far as the eye can see
Flames spitting embers into a clear blue sky
Ribs and potatoes nestled into dutch ovens

My world is quiet.
My universe is still.
My life is pure.

A foreign peacefulness
A comforting oneness
complete with operatic songbirds
and the swings of a steadfast ax

A mind sauntering towards problems
far, far away from where we are
disintegrate with the setting sun,
dissolving in a melody of laughter

rest
*you can rest now

It's a pleasant scene really;
calm breeze whistling,
bonfire glowing,
uninhibited chortles rippling through the air.
But I'm not feeling like myself today.
I'm just forcing a smile
through split, bloodstained lips
and the sizzling of alcohol
on open wounds is
amusing.
There are too many conversations.
Entertained by slurred statements
and detached from subject,
I am void and vacant space
occupying this camper chair.
But when a muffled interaction begins, things finally get
interesting.

"You've got a little bit of crazy in your eyes."

The observation haunts me.

Long, long ago, my heart was penned inside a leather book. An ornate pattern was etched upon the cover, accompanied by heavenly hues. Crisp, ivory pages and ink as black as a raven's wing showed evidence of joy, pain, sorrow, and truth.

I would study the book for hours, fascinated by its complexities. I liked tracing my fingers over the fine details, my eyes danced over the calligraphy. And then I began to wonder if anyone else wanted to read my book. So I sought to find out.

I embarked on journeys and took nothing but my beautiful book. Every traveler I met was invited to read it, and I would sit quietly next to them as they leafed through the pages. I would administer the addition of their letters and lessons, hoping to personify their most admirable traits. My eyes widened in horror as they defaced its elegance. But I was confused and saddened when someone chose to rip out any pages and chapters to keep for themselves, leaving asymmetrical gashes in my most prized possession.

As a young girl, the travelers were gentle with my beautiful book. They treated it with great care and smiled at me with warm eyes. As I grew older, far more people began to treat the book with less respect. Sure, most wanted to read it, but some read only the parts that they deemed worthy. Others read with greed to exploit the deep secrets within. And others completely disregarded the book all together.

Now, the bindings are worn down and dangerously thin. The pages are feeble, threatening to tear from the softest contact. I dare not travel with it any longer, let alone even touch it for fear that it will fall apart in my own hands. It sits on a bookstand, accumulating dust.

I long to open the book once more, but I know that I must wait for the most avid Reader to be gentle with its contents. It is tenderness that will bring the most beautiful parts of the book to life. The Reader will restore its fragile state and add the knowledge and clarity that no other person could have taught. And as the new and improved project is completed, the purest form of love will stem forth.

Until then, my beautiful book will rest easy.

griming squeals and cavernous drops
catapulting into euphoria

i, the beat's marionette as
a grimy dirt cadence possesses me

puff puff , a stink is infiltrating
yet its sweetness clears a mind distressed

notice the Flying Ruby , eyes mesmerized
by the smoke cascading from my lips

******* touching and spliced hands
encompass a transaction of intimacy

Today entails a small bit of
day drinking
I'm clad in a string bikini
and a chilled beer bottle
pressed to my lips.
It feels fantastic
to get a little drunk
at 2 in the afternoon

And yet, it also kind of
numbs the Pain,
the Pain of feeling
like a complete failure
or vapid
or inadequate
in life, love, and green

I'm dwelling on my
most personal desires:
a sweaty yoga practice,
deep beats pounding through my Body,
ironing white dress shirts,
the feeling that I am a piece of art:
you can look but you do not touch Me

Niceties tend to fly out the window
when the tiniest bit of liquor
enters My Temple.
Completely aware of
my role as
sugar, spice, everything nice;
its a balancing act
between the good and bad
coursing through my veins

There is nothing nobler
than being Good,
but sometimes it is
Oh. So. Good
to be Bad

Sometimes I don't really remember people
by their specifics or
characteristics.
Their hair,
their eyes,
their body,
sometimes even minds and personalities
become a blur

cuz
I remember people
by the feelings that which they leave me.
I am painfully aware of their
swift entrances and
immediate exits,
leaving me bewildered
as to how and why they
came to be

But for some reason,
I can recall
(almost) every detail
about you.
I remember
gleaming azures
and head-topped sandy blonde.
I remember
macrame, leather jackets
a confident voice
and a six-string gizmo.
I remember
your body: long and lean
secure
Electric

But mostly,
I remember
the multitude of feelings that which you left me.
Curiosity.
Understanding.
Euphoria.
And finally, disappointment.
Not with you, though.
With my naivety.

My impressionable soul
clings to the people who
captivate me,
and you sir,
were riddle and enchantment.
The ideal.
And you still are
in the way that mysteries tend to be;
unforgettable stories
of pure bliss.

It's the most freeing feeling, it is
To be walking around naked

Every little bit, just as it should be
Rejoicing a bestowed framework

Grazing the curvatures of warm flesh
Inattentive to soft glitches

In such joyous liberations
True wholeness is glorified

I took you to my favorite place
right after.
You wore your "adventure hat"
I ******* hated that piece of felt
You chattered aimlessly
hinted at prospective bliss
The flashing lights were before me
yet the food
told me to proceed
Fried food seemed intimate enough.

look at you
look at those strong, illuminated eyes
staring back at you

what a beautiful disaster you are living
what a labyrinth of wins and loses
like we're water circling the drain
while the world may seem like a cruel place
you are here to experience the vastness that is the human condition
and when things just don't make sense
remember that you are not alone and that
you are loved

do not be afraid
you are in good hands
the universe is going to take care of you

behold the frolicking artichoke
bewildering complexities of her natural
hues unfolding tumultuously before me
cascading into the dark abyss
of raw power as her succulent heart
pounds her silken extremities
growing and shrinking before my eyes
like the disappearing light at the end of a long tunnel
oh artichoke we are looking to
you to reveal our hidden destiny

bass palpitations and neon fragmentations
briefly deflect the cruelty of
your perceivable
emptiness

a rainbow of sweat, anonymous
stems encompassing sauntering spirits
a fully elevated identity
identifies the rationale
behind the soul's existence.
THERE IT IS,
dangling before doped surveillance;
can't you taste its sweetness?

and
before you grasp it,
the crescent wanes
pacing shuffled steps
tracing fleeted memories.
nights with beautiful intruders
terminated with sonorous ears,
oscillations of the frame,
and you,
crashed
on pillow-top.

how did you got here?
recollections
excruciating
tattoos of a misleading
reality.

i wanna be a Vagabond
traveling around in a
decrepit Volkswagon van.
maybe there are some furry walls inside,
but i cannot make any promises...............

i want to live on nothing but
dry Frosted Flakes.
i'll wear the thrift store clothes
that dented my pocket 15
they're faded and torn
from stories and adventures,
which is chill.
it's better than this cookie-cutter suit.............

i will admire coastal beaches
and watch their scorching sunsets.
climb to high mountain peaks
and look down upon the anthills
that us busy-bodies have made.
i'll accompany fried-chicken dinners
with twangy country tunes,
and feel the breeze whipping through my hair in an everlasting cornfield..................

You should come with Me.
we can invite people to merge our journeys
sharing the inspiration of a nomadic dream.
let's create our own home,
build our own future!
society's norms were not meant
for us free spirits.
the world is our classroom.
why are we too scared to learn from it?................

Well, on second thought,
maybe I should bring those
brownies that Nana makes.
*Perhaps I'll miss home.

Back-to-back with the driver,
I see a diminishing world.

A spaghetti road
twists and ascends
just to spit me back onto
cemented migrations
that everyone else is
calling their own.

Twin yellow lines
pacing even-steven
end in aggressive Morse codes
I cannot make out.

These panoramic cliff sides
and igneous intrusions are
miraculous,
magnanimous!
Yet, those too
begin to fade away.

Back-to-back with the driver,
my life moves forward
backwards,
blinded from the future
as the past shrivels
into nothing more
than blotted memories.

Sunlight's abrasive presence
provokes a heated isolation
stewed together in a
cauldron of perishables,
stoney partitions
metal dividers
bind, slay
serene slumbers
cued by the waning sol,
an aubade crooned
by Mr. Bluebird
shifts crystal puffs
harnessing Skinfaxi

Let's move.
Together.
I don't want you to not be touching me.
Gliding, leaping, spinning, jumping,
slithering, leaning, wrapping, lifting,
grabbing, rubbing, stroking, groping,
singing with your beautiful body
I am amazed by
your power,
the ability
and willingness
to share


                                                         ­ and here I am
                                                          keep­ing to myself, trembling
                                                       ­   completely immobile
                                                        ­  with no ability to play


This fine madness,
a simple extravagance


                                                  ­         and yet I sit here waiting
                                                         ­  for my cue to join

Maybe it's your hair thrashing
or the guitar in your hand
or the duck walk you have perfected.
Howling with laughter,
I try to catch my breath
and piece together words unspoken:
I want to see more of what you are doing
                                                           ­              right now

You are young and wild.
Eager and restless.
"Emotionally imbalanced",
sporadic
"unstable"
Yet you have mastered this fine dance, and
will continue to find the footing
because a new beginning will dawn
and tonight is all you have.
Yes, you are far from where you are going.
But you are in the eye of a fine tempest.
Isn't the loss of vision perfection?

It is on eves like these where
confinement to my quarters is perfection.
The crushing ideal to become the butterfly
who floats ever so gracefully
in the shadows of the neon lights
with fore and hind chitin
effervescently radiating towards
the heat source greater than my own
and pollinating each and every flower
gracing this beautiful Earth:

gratuitous metamorphosis

Tonight I will be the moth,
flickering near the light
and fluffing my feathered antennas.
My "drab" wings will shield me
from predators of land and sky,
an easy rest on this heart of oak.
Navigate me stars and Moon,
my essence attracts for miles round.

*placid animation

It’s a bubblicious nightmare,
Hell’s stagnant shock waves
converged from eclectic mass and
unsound rip tides.
Graze the protruding vein
poignant BK3,
slit the sheath and
the frame weeps of the
massacre stemmed.
A body fallen finds refuge
paralyzed whimsical mess

Java and a thimble of cream
A churning station
Clinging to the last bits coursing my veins
Lost breath
Singular stillness
Meander these Elysian Fields
Oh, won't you come with me?
Take my hand
I'll show you what I see
A mystical haze
A surreal nature
A whimsical twirl
the Sun caressing your mortal being
I want to stay here forever
Please, come with me

She says she has none,
but her daddy issues run deep.

She pops pills and binges on tequila
to feel empowered and alive.
Intoxication controls her
and she gets behind the wheel.
The possible danger, legal ramifications;
they do not matter.
She wants the fleeting source to fill the void.
Her actions are impulsive, flighty
she is always searching...
searching....
searching...

She licks her lips, lusciously seductive
and gives away the milk.
The cows move too quickly now,
even for cows.
Then here comes the Crazy Parade
led by the depressed conductor.
Disoriented mutterings, ****** frustrations;
no one watches, no one cares

Her ruin is a full-time job
the 8 to 5 never ends.

She says she has none,
but her daddy issues run deep.

It is not drishti;
It is my ignorant staring
that draws me into you

Neither eyes, head
nor heart softens
straining to meet your gaze

Yearning, longing
unspoken earnest
an ensnared frenzy

The alien depths of
complicated blues
dismember me

The tales and odes
craft and song;
mimic sweet melodies

Basking in warmth
tracing footsteps;
following blindly

But this is fleeting faith
euphoric delusions
****** girlish fantasies

you leave me
again;
naked, empty

Repeated assessments in
blood-red marks;
*** laude in foolery

Yet I rise once more
reassemble the remnants
move forward

For that is all I know,
and I fear;
all I will ever know

the impenetrable stereotype
of typical American households
fussing
with bake sales, church functions, soccer games
where gremlins
push and shove and put their
grimy hands all over
clean novelties,
where chaotic supernatural creatures
bust and break and bite
pristine, picturesque products
that consumed hours of effort
and sweat

perfectly polished
hands dripping with gold and diamonds
swipe across a glistening brow
sighs escape
a pearl noosed neck colliding with the collar bone
of pressed dresses,
pick up your feathered orb to
twirl and taunt and tantalize your
uniformed, unwavering kingdom
where nothing is out of place
and order

kiss and cook and clean
care for screaming beasts
map out dangerous trails of silence and suppression
too deep a hole
to claw yourself out of
a forever binding contract
to voluntary servitude