i bathe in serene
sleepy mountainside ledges
kissed by lips of fall

I send this track

Out to the Universe

Praying its echoes

Reach the farthest corners of the Earth

To reach you



I want the melody

To seep into your skin

The synthesizer

To shake your ribs

Each percussive meter

Synced to your beating heart



And as the music fades

And the ethereal chimes

Tickle the silence

Imagine my fingers

Tracing your lips

Pulling you in for a taste of bliss



I hope this track

Transcends the airwaves

That my light

Enraptures you

And embalms you

In Affection

Her breath is the lavish humidity
She sings with the symphonies of crickets
Her tears are delicate rainfalls, washing the silence
Her breathing is the wind that shivers the palm trees

She calls out to you
Wraps you in Her arms
Cleanses you,
Heals you

She is serene
She is abundant
She is warmth
She is Love

Mother Bali, watch over me always
Deliver me Home

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

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.

Why is it
that I
feel closest to you
when this
simple timestamp
appears before me?

Can you explain this digital phenomenon
that verifies your existence?

That you do
indeed
breath and eat and dream;
that radio silence
is
the most empty sound of all?

Why is it
that I
feel closest to you
when this
simple timestamp
appears before me?

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

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.

the shower is on
the water never ceases
and I have to ****

Falling fast
From high above
The dawning
Delirium
Faltering
from Ego
Bitter In Taste
Sweet in Action
And this is
When
You must
Jump
Knowing that
Soon
The Ground
Will meet
You

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

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

Heart hope gurgling
From a gagged symposium
Fused by hollow cheese

Crystal clear compounds
Tarnished
With a sloppy Stain

An imperfect existence
Imprinted
Upon pure provenance

Reflections
Warped and wrenched
Into a gruesome
Unaccredited vision

Scrape the crust
Of this placid pool

Retract
Marvel
Bygone hygiene

Crystal clear
No more

I like watching you in the kitchen.

Your motions are swift,
from the stove to the food processor
to the sink to the dishwasher
it's one seamless flurry.
A graceful hustle.

Country music is playing in the background.
You don't know all the words,
but every once in a while
a lyric escapes your honeyed mouth.
I smile
because it's a line filled with weight.
A heavy pondering
with careful reflection.
I can see that in your smile.

As I sit here,
eyeing you with adoration,
you approach me
with a petite sample on a silver fork.
I do not hesitate
to open my mouth,
like a baby bird begging for a secondhand worm.

Just like everything you have ever given me,
it is marvelous.
It's of good quality and impeccable flavor,
ladled forth
from a generous heart.

I like it here in your domain.
My eyes will feast on this view
forever.

I'm going to wake you up,
shake you up,
and leave you with
the scent of Morning Wood
fresh on your lips.

Tumbled and tangled
in the smoke of cedar,
we'll listen to the whistling of the
aged-redwood.

Quivering artisan candles
neither match nor compare to
our warmth,
and the best scent's throw
is time wasted
until June 4th.

cheap beer,
hand-rolled cigarettes,
crisp air slicing the night,
the divide crumbles beneath the beastly black ball
plunked into a crook.
gentle expressions liberated
from an
anchored breeze
as minds intertwine under the
beaming orb of night.
bedrock activities in conjunction with
still, articulating hearts
mimic
an innocent jubilee
that only morning knows of its arrangement.

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.

In the middle of a relentless snowstorm,
hidden in the shadows and clouds,
an oscillating flame
inhales the wind's howls
and churns amongst the gusts of snow
to produce a relentless beam
that refuses to atrophy.

The flame lingers in the blizzard
and brushes off the beatings
until a stillness forms
in the thick of fear.

The snowflakes sizzle,
the flame sears the crystalline stars;
but a pure reform
refreshes the turbulence
and allows it to dwindle
for one more day.

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

I like hearing my own voice.

I like its rich tone and sultry air.
Some people called it a little husky for a woman's
but squeaky voices
make people cringe.
I love the feeling of beautiful words rolling off my tongue,
creating intonations that are completely and uniquely
my own,
and re-rehearsing my free verse
so it sounds absolutely perfect
to me.

Yes,
I love hearing my own voice.
I find the greatest joy in listening to my own discourse.
But, sometimes I don't because my voice can also be my
worst enemy.

From a young age,
discrepancies arose in in my communication.
Repetition, prrrrrooooolongation, and ab-   normal stoppages
plagued my speech.
Even with hours of therapy and annunciation drills,
I still couldn't escape
from choking
on my own words.

A quiet child wants nothing more than to demand attention
by speaking boldly.
A voice w-w-worth listening to that is eager to share
hides behind the fear
of stumbling on
little t-teeny letters.
And children are the cruelest of beings.
Their critique on anything abnormal
leaves deep scars.

I wanted to read out loud in class,
be an actress, a poet.
Maybe it's because I love the sound of my own voice,
but with all of these activities revolving around it,
it is laborious to have a
stutter.

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

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

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

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.

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

borderline obsessed,
reach-for-the-stars-over-the-fence
with a side of nausea & self-loathing.
bus side advertisements like Post-It Notes,
Manolos and Choos berserk in clouds of smoke and storms of ***.
lots of ***.
rice pudding, saltine ******* sandwiches
and coloring with breakfast banter
illuminate a beige bed of two sullen indents
draped in love

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.

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

Bedhead hair is the best look,
an inferno of dreaded curls
knotted and frazzled on high.
Shuffling into the kitchen
she finds her way to the coffee ***
before any kind of greeting
dares escape her sleepy smile.
With freckles resembling
a ******* masterpiece
my eyes grow green(er) with envy;
that gene never dominated with me.
"So what time did you get in last night?"
she asks with a wide grin.

And so the Interrogation begins...

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.

A present
of citrus flames and gorgeous warmth
wrapped up in ribbons
of thick gray trimming
nicely disguise her demon-like temperament.
Callused digits and snapping embers
snarling a ferocious alarm,
her gnashing luminous teeth
latch on to unprotected areas and leave a bite
that kills all
curiosity  
behind her
ravenous energy.
Charring and blistering the helpless prey,
her malevolent laughter torments from afar
while she quickly retreats
to her den,
nibbling her bedtime snack.
She dispenses poison like a teenage lover leaves hickeys,
even the most common and revered remedies scarcely pacify the
scars.
And yet she is unapologetically herself,
brazen,
raw.
She is magnetic.
And untouchable.

I call off the night with a growling, thunderous appetite for affection.

Just when I think my brain may explode from overstimulation, I encounter a yearning for an uncomplicated embrace.

I am in awe of these beautiful, strange people. Magnificent spirits worthy of everything their heart desires.

With a tightly clenched jaw and throbbing eyes, I am overwhelmed with wonder. Magic comes about in an abrupt fashion.

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

I've been told
That this will come to pass
That feelings disintegrate
That fissures fill themselves
That it will all get better in time

Every tired saying
Every cliché that's ever been vomited
I eat up quick then regurgitate

I guess those sayings really are there for a reason
To explain what really can't be said

I'm in the beginning, middle, and end
Waiting for the fade-away
A broken record with a sad tune
Ascending to the apex of steadiness

I can already feel it coming on
The Free Fall
A slow moving catapult into oblivion
I will lose myself
In the black hole of tangled limbs
And in grasps so perfectly sculpted
Michelangelo could've carved it
Waking up amalgamated
Into the evening's assumed position
Your eyes are grey and clouded
Like the dawning of this day
Please forgive me
I know not what I do

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

I can no longer say that I am
jolted.
There is nothing more to be
added
or
mended.
What
came to pass was ice
melted
by the Saharan sun;
annihilated,
forever
vanished.
But even from its infancy when things were good and true,
the foremost duty was
always
truancy.
I can no longer say that I am
jolted:
my indifference is the
green light.

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

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

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