To be the
unlocked door
before you

Jimmie in with
bobbi pins and
credit cards
or
Knock politely and
wait, ring if left
unanswered

Maybe I'm still
in the shower

Music and poetry
are my composite

A glorified nautilus
shell-useless unless
inhabited-

God forbid they
should outgrow me

I'm no real
thing

some flash of
magical realism
-the force but not
the subject-

existence in the
vibrations and singing
of mushi, but not exactly
becoming those
tufts of light fully

Elephants are my
favorite, but I
hate giraffes

I don't trust
the horns
on their heads

Or how they
coerced evolution
into upgrading
their necks, legs AND
tongues -greedy
little *******-

Just eat from bushes
or averaged sized
trees like a normal
******* herbivore

This is how
you start a
poem:
one word
and then
another;

make sure each
word begins with
a letter;

-Note some tone
there in each
stanza and line-

This is where the
meaning of the
poem becomes clear
to the reader;

Here is the turn,
and at the same
time its resolution;

This is how you
end a poem: with
one last word

Choral songs sung
in corpus mixtum,
perpetual rehearsal
within the cathedral
turned to mere stone
-only 1 or 2 heathens
in the bunch-

Liberated from speech,
pagans, and plainness
-like Liberace and his hair-
upperish limit: written
music, and past that?
Prayer

Again! Again!
wild shouts from
a child tossed
in the air, and
so it goes

I want you to be the only
one to make me ***

Again! Again!
and so it does
for the benefit
of the child

I don't see a future with you,
I never have

Laws are made
in the light of
its consequence,
written to be
enforced rather
than practiced

An active angel
abides by the
natural laws in
which it resides

Following the example
of the sun: turning
leaves green not
because they
lack green

In its essence emitted
allows for such
things to exist

The sun has no
skeleton -to
our knowledge-

It cannot break
or fracture, and
so does not think
of them

No jointed rays to
reach out or
hold like hands

Only
porous warmth

King Midas
has donkey
ears

The truth
-in a shallow
ditch-
covered by
a thin layer
of dirt

The wind does not knock
though it be a lonely soul.
It turns, goes back home

Je voudrais
ecrire
un poème
en français

But I've
forgotten
it already

Merde

Mi parte favorito
es cuando yo
puedo quemar
el trozo del papel
-poco linea del
rojo y ***** y
entonces gris-

Canción jugando
en el fondo

Close the eyes
to give it a try:
Florida sun
vibrant and warm

Sensations known
but not felt

It was -indeed-
and that is
all it was

I dance with
body electric
blue and
sliding,

Let me
teach you:

Yoncé flexin
-*******,
*******-
hands up
hips rolling
like loaded
dice

Song over.

9-5 just
to stay alive
another month

One quarter lady:

Hepburn coquetry
-approachable yet
unattainable- and
Victoria Secret
silk nightgowns
handed down

The rest:
a complete
**** show

Shake
makes up
the bulk of
it

-tobacco in
the tips-

Gum
licked over

Smoke blown
lips

Is this the sky?
Does it disguise
how seasons
play out?

How many
times?
Not yet
too many,
but more than
it set out to

Bound lightly
left on hempty
and winking:

Skylight
spreading
skynight

The moment
-meek-
minced by words
mumbled under
breaths too
preoccupied
with breathing

Cold front
approaching
-shivering,
shaken carten
left out too long,
sweating-
La niña
-soft and
warm-

Inevitable collision,
crumpling and
languished
intermingling

-milk spilling
upon the
counter top-

The fault of
our kind: thoughts
shared closer
than bodies

A body exposed or
naked for pleasure
not yours: beauty

I am a circle:  
definite indecisions
looped in an array of
implausible logics and standard
reasonings -within their composition
quasi-quarks with peculiar quirks
like most anything-
I want to do how others do
I want to want how they do too

The poem reaper
-sleek and discreet-
awake after its
long sleep

Post-hibernation:
does one address
the thirst or the
hunger first?

I feel the earth
stilling, and
so I become
still

I hate to even
call it love

I'm not sure
what it was
now

Perhaps it was only
a temporary
relief

Dribbling drops from above,
sunken in cieling
seal skin smooth
saltfish nicely
butchered
bubbling

Floats and
sinks for
ocean floor
kisses
-coquetishly-

Can't stay too
long,

Hey, I'm Mister
Meeseeks,
look at me!
Can you finish cooking?

Can't exist too
long

Simple tasks in
order to give
them a quick
and proper
inevitable
heat death

The day of
her affair

And Poldy
-in love-
allowing it

A father invites a son
into the kitchen,
talking before
he walks
him
out

Reentering
the house at night
filled with evidence
of Boylan

Crumbs brushed
off the bed
-ten years
since-

Feet at the head
and head at the
foot, a behind
kiss to Gea-tellus

Life is a mandala!
Everything is a mandala!
-oh my God, I can use my lungs-
Nothing lasts and nothing
matters, however lovely
or terrible

Murderous fingers ripping
unimposing string of
yarn, row by
hourly row

Pancakes plain
with packaged
syrup,
syruptitiously
soaking through
spongey sea foam
substance and
eggs

Not enough
bacon

I wanted so much
to write some
ranting
angry
poem

Then I remembered:
those were the
ones you
liked
best

Child eyes
used to spin
the skies into
cotton candy
tasty cloud
nines

Can I get a hit?
Reverse sniffles, white dragons
flew straight to the head

The opposite
of deja vu
is to become
unfamiliar
with what
you are well
acquainted

Which will
happen
to you
after I'm
released?

Be struck by
some sort of
jamais vu upon one
chance meeting
and recall a
vague nothing
-millions of
quick kisses,
itchy chins, and
naked cuddling-

Be reminded
of how far
time can pull
two people apart

Beauty the
incunabula
-first traces of
anything-
of poetry

Feelings
-known but
unnamed-
spurned
from the
sublime

Quiero volver
a Sevilla
cuando
podemos
levantarse
durante siesta
y volver a
dormir
-pero
solo esta
vez-

Para espere
y mata de
hambre
el hambre

Tiendas cerradas
desde dos
hasta cinco

To be like
the older
Dedalus
blood wooed
by grace of
language and
gesture,
blushing

conceding
to take a
cigarette

Would it be
too vain
to make love
in a museum?

Pinned to a
wall amongst
Degas dancers
and Pissarro
landscapes
where I'd
dare to be
some work of
arduous work
for you

Taste full
waves made
rolling
moare of
you

discom
bobulated
model
compiled
of tons of
things not
made of
us
in a
constant
grasp
of your
bending
banyan
limbs a
mangrove
combinding
to keep an
open
meyend

total
composite
of things
outside
of me

Ha sido
una semana hasta
mi ultimo humo,
y no me siento mejor.
No estoy cansada ni
tengo hambre.

Soy perezosa
me acuesto aquí
en mi cama, con
la sabana deja de mi.
Estoy frío pero
mis almohadas
están cómodo

The nighttree looming
in full bloom -clumps
of ripe starfruit
hanging from
boughs-
drooping
heavily

The sea
frightens
me.

Too deep
wide
dark
ice
wet
filled with
creatures

It does
not stop.

Kisses sweetly
the sandy
shoreline:
Is it teasing
or begging
forgiveness?

It cannot
stop.

My fear
lies in the
immensity of
its depths
and
in the
thought that
pleasing or
pleading

The ocean
will kiss
the shoreline
-always-
with a frothy
caress

I want to
write words
in hasty brush
strokes,
-messy yet
precise and
in its right
place- smear
and blend two
words into one
to create new
hues

How can I
paint a
poem?

How does
one display
indefinance
with definite
things?

I haven't
because
I know
you'll see
and read
and judge,
but mostly:

I've already
given away
too many
secrets that
I want back

Ways to
be as
honest
as possible
without
becoming
existentially
depressed: cloud
watch alone
at night, float
in a body
of water (with
a minimum
of 70%),
don't pick
the prettiest
flowers,
listen to
music you
hate

God I'm
crazy and
weak.

I wish I still
believed and
could pray -it
really did
help-

A godless
world is exactly
what you'd imagine
it to be -partially
because we
live in it-

I hate
that once
a month I'm
stuck being a
girl with girl needs
and girl whims

I hate that
it makes me
actually miss
you when you're
gone: acknowledge,
assess, process,
exactly  
how long it's
been

Maddening.

I imagine
disgusting globs
of whatever
stuff you claim
to have so much of
sloughing

off,
crawling away
half dead in the
cold coming to
the window to
tap, or perhaps
the door
to
knock like a
lonely soul and

you know
I've a psilocybin
enduced empathetic
streak embedded deep,
couldn't possibly
leave a thing to
freeze on its
own,
but
still yet
intruding
against my
will:

This is
the only
explanation:
I could not
thus feel
otherwise
by myself,
nevertheless
being mired
in such muck

I hate
being stuck
with the absence
of you for days
at a time
-especially with
these blobs
reminding of how
once
you were willing
to drive to
Tom's before
I had to cath him
at 2:30
in the morning

Just to smoke
and talk
a little
while

I doubt any of that
even matters now

God...
I must
be crazy
going crazy
acting crazy

I hate it.

I also hate
hating things.