“I love you like the moon.”

         “I’d do anything to see that smile.”

                      “I’m standing on a roof
               and the tingle of the edge
                          reminds me of you..”

                 “Anything, anything for those eyes.”

            “Do you want the gifts I have for you?
        *Nope, I just want you.
                 Kay, I’ll wear a bow.
         I’ll wear a bow too..”

                              too,
               too,
too,

  girdled,
       packed up,
   ensnared, stacked, ****** up -
  
      All fickle,
   molded, folded
           to the point where the paper
         starts to tear,
                    
   “One day, we’ll get married.”

Cold,
    recycled feelings
   and you still don’t care?
Care enough to play nice
   with the frail beast
          at your feet,
  the silent song
whisking
   the oil
                 and
         water
  into grey -
      
    “A fantasy –that’s what you are to me..”

Vacuous games
    you still like to play -

   as if
      I were a fool, too,
                     like him –

       or a fool, too,
                               like you -

  not to see how bad you are,
             how sad you are,

           lonesome,

         aching baritone
     deceiving a different home
       with the loudness still in your lap,

       ended with that slap,
        started, again, with that stare,
      that glare into a promise,
          a dream worth more while
        than a bed full of loveless tricks
             and a jealous heart
                rung out,
        back in the back,
           where the bees feast
                on all the hot meat
            swallowed,
      inhaled by your salty appetite

                              for sadness,
                                 contrived madness,

              again,
              again,
             ­ agrain?,
              again,
              again?,
          ­    again,
              a_pain -

                  ****,

ungird me from this swaddling love cocoon,
                     unshackle me,
                         untie me from this camouflaging lie,
                                       unwind me,
                                    unbind me,

              don’t blanket me with all
               you think I want to hear…

        if you don’t want me -
             let me love another      


        “..almost like it gives you joy crushing me so hard -
                   all I’ve done is love you.”

principle -

a little piece
  of something much bigger,
     belonging to both
                         halves
                           crumbling in rather,
              suddenly, opposing desires
                for an unknown everlasting;

     never-casting
       lines of the unconscious-

   whimpers after a deliberate strike
    bleed so
               much
                  more than
       all the possibility
         of sadness
          in these softened cracks,

     in the subtextual
       slips monopolizing
         our silence;

   possibility  I wouldn't know -

           tell me, babe,
        please tell me when this
                sigh is over

            that you've fallen
                              in
                              in
                              in
                              in
                              in
                              in
                              in
                              in
                              in
                              us

I never went to bed
with a real ugly woman

It's just the proud man deep in me

Close as I came--
one had her teeth stained

But her heart was as pure as could be


I never went to bed
with a real ugly woman

It's just something I never would do

If I passed out from gin
does it count at the end

If I did, er, wake up with a few.....

hitchhiking was common
in the summer of love
guess we thought we were guarded
from evil
by some mystical power above

my thumb was my plea
to generous humanity
to carry me to glorious heights
and other ethereal sights

many souls obliged me
both young and old
only wanting to be told
where I had been and where I wanted to go
for we were all part of life’s flow

so it went for many a dreamy mile
and after only a little while
I began to think nirvana could be achieved
as long as we all believed
in the love we called free

until one summer night
when my thumb was seen
by him
by him
in his old Olds
with his slick head of hair
why
did he
turn right on that desert road
that wasn’t the way to…
why did he…?

he stopped the car by a shallow ravine
where it could not possibly be seen
by other dreamers under the same dark skies
and pointed the blue stinking steel barrel
at my shaking face
“out, out!”
out, out brief candle I wondered?

I did not run, not from his gun
and when he pulled a shovel from his mysterious trunk
I can only remember that something sunk
my young heart? drum like pounding
and his vile voice sounding
like I would imagine an imp from hell

he leaned the shovel against the car door
and was about to ask my body for more
until I grabbed the grave digger with a frantic paw
and swung it wildly until I saw
him lying in the hard desert dirt
with his greasy head starting to squirt
the blood
the blood…
(later I wondered
who else shared this blood?)
but on that night
and in that dream
I only remember the blood
turning the sand from gray to black
and him lying on his back
and weak feeble gasps from his foul mouth
and me silencing his guttural pleas
with another blow
and another
and another
until
he was still

my arms ached when the sun began to rise
and I finally could open my eyes
to see him nowhere to be found
(except under the gritty ground)
and my deed was done

I awake
again and again
to wonder
where I really was the night before
and if there was really such a thing as settling a score
with the man who opened my childlike eyes
or for me, who closed his
forever

when the shining glass looks back at us
like a stalled rerun of our personal opera of soap
and the technicolor turns to charcoal gray
we know we are coming to the end of our day

and we look to smaller spaces,
those “windows to the soul”,
for a reflection of who we are,
or were
they cast an obligatory glance
or do an avoidance dance
when we give an imploring stare
to see if they know, we are still there

each day fewer shine bright or glitter with glee
and we wonder what happened to me
the me they saw and sought after
in the colored world of before

others disappear into their own dark night
long having endured the inevitable plight
of the cold mirror’s still, shattering view
and disappearing eyes of all but a few
who see us faintly
in the light that remains

by a great churning sea
said to have no memory
we passed a sunny afternoon
and a blue cold dusk
like pacific pilgrims in a new land
making our first prints on ****** sand
but
what we bravely said in the fading light
quickly sifted into the eyeless night

what dreams we painted
long ago became tainted
by ambiguous ambitions with dollar signs
and other equally jaded earthly designs
that did not clutter or cloud our speech
on that seemingly primeval beach
where all still seemed within reach

now I have but a colored frame
and likely only me to blame
for falling farther from Eden with each passing day
when I repress what we three had to say
on a sandy summer shore
in the land that is no more

When walking down the street
I have a tendency to get looks
an eye glance here and there
I don’t mind it to much
it means I’m special
it’s when the glances come with ignorance
my mind has a tendency to get flustered.
that’s when it hits.
and I’m the lost one
because I refuse to be seen as one thing
since my speech and race don’t seem to quite match
I apparently have an identity crisis
but that’s cool
I realize my worth is more then in my skin
I don’t mean to be indignant
but I refuse to not be heard
There is more to my identity
then the complexion that was placed on me
a wise guy once said
                                                                ­                                  “we are the people every one wants to be like,
                                                           ­                                                          but never the people you want to be”
while I understand that all colors don’t really make a rainbow,
I know they can still blend to make art
create beauty in whats become this ugly world
and instead of catching the falling hate
                                                                ­                                                             throw out love
                                                          ­                                                              p­assion
                                                        ­                                                        exciteme­nt
                                                                ­                                     Acceptance...
and understand what is
or change it to make what needs to be
                                                     I consider myself a Woman
                                                         ­                                I know that I'm a Friend
                                                      ­    I  try to be  a Learner
                                                                ­                        I will be a Lover
But I will not be considered to be anything other
THEN WHAT I AM!
**** that
just to clear up the confusion
                                                       ­                                             I
                                                                ­                                         am not
                                                             ­                                                          a *Color.

They don't know about the love we have for each other.
Do they know about the silly nicknames we have for each other?
The hearty laughter we shared from our inside jokes?
Or the secret language that belongs strictly to us?

They don't know about the love we have for each other.  
Do they know about the intimate passion that we would constantly fall victim to?
The brief moments when we held heaven and hell in the palm of our hands & spoke to God?
Or the vulnerable moments where we released the private sections of our past?

They don't know about the love we had for each other.
Do they know that we used to be one soul but now we are just two bodies?
The days that we spent arguing and spilling tears over the silliest little things?
Or the day he released my soul so he can rest in the arms of his lioness?

They don't know about the love we had for each other.
Do they know about the fantasy world she trapped herself in to escape the life without him?
The nights she spent wandering when she would finally numb the aching pain?
Or the times she wished she could go back to her past & forget ever meeting him?

They will never know.

A Beast of a man in appearance and soul,

A silhouette of her memories chilling him cold,

Sitting alone with his thoughts hating time,

Screaming inside trying to shatter his mind,

Immune to pain from his love of Roses,

The beautiful thorns struck vivd poses,

His love was a curse, She laid it herself,

A disease, a sickness, It shattered his health,

It occured at first sight of this beauty, This Belle,

Time had been spent she was treating him well,

His eyes wet with tears, His cold heart growing warm,

Foreshadowing revealed the oncoming storm,

She had to go away with a promise of return,

He gave her a ring and his voice had been stern,

He brushed her cheek gently and said very clear

"Remember my love, Im always right here"

After being home and revisitng her life,

She decided to stay, an unsuspected knife,

With the last of his soul he picked a final rose,

In the dark of his castle where the sun never rose,

Be it magic or hope the rose never dies,

Never to be witnessed by another Belles eyes,

He locked it away, Hidden without fail,

You say youve heard this? An old Fairytale?

I guess it is close. Similar at least,

Look closely my friend.. I am the Beast.

Let’s just kiss and make something up.
It’s plain that I’m not sleeping enough
as a practiced insomniac you know,
and make coffee for us in the morning.

Last night we fell over laughing,
exhaling smoke I drawled,
“Everything in this kitchen it sticky”
everything.
For five minutes I think we laughed.

I made brownies.
You held me around the waist,
and spoke with your eyes.