I’ve tattooed a line across
the veins of my wrist
and marked a down stroke
for every time
“you can’t wear red lipstick”
made me believe
I never wanted to in the first place.

for every time instead
I’ve stained my lips with cherries
learning how to tie the stems
so I can slip forget-me-knots
to the back of your throat—
do you feel my restriction now?

the razors that fly off my tongue
perk thorns on my skin,
another down stroke on my wrist
will teach me that
you were right,
shyness is a virtue.

no need to speak,
go spend one hundred dollars
and some percent for tax
to cover up,
even though I’m sure your mother told you
that cotton stains.

so make it black.
get your hair stuck
in the zipper of that sundress
and pray as you pull it out
that it will lose its pigmentation
in the process
mark a down stroke
for killing two flowers
for one bouquet.

hold it
close your eyes and throw it back,
I know we shouldn’t be wearing white anyway
but tradition can take a lot out of you
like what you really think—
don’t say **** in public.

instead drag your first impressions
all the way to the altar
and dress in your Sunday best
a flower on your lapel
clear on your lips
a stroke for the neat decline
of the son

I tattooed a line across
the veins of my wrist
and marked a down stroke
for every time
my image
was my fault.

The transgressions of utter here and nowity
Unbeleivable longing for a collapsing norm
On the altar of self destruction and causal
Reciprocity fluttering on rebirthed dreams

You can sing and love these colorful birds
Vibritang meticulously with rare palpitations
Of greater bodies, which dust is a part of us
Delusional creatures, flying on the grandeur

Non reachable to written words, stellar ink is
Spilled, playing on the shores of ever returning
Waves of transformation; Shapes dance within
Your gaze, telling the story of water coy stillness

Unmovable we move on, unlovable we love hope
Clinging to tree roots and blood veins as clothes
Warm our trembling fragile figures travelling on
And on into the higher realms of transfiguration.

Interior beauty
the high jump on the cupboard

Phosphorescent skies rolling backwards
soft paws clinging to a marvelous cloud

Holding a bronze mirror
muses adorned in sandals on terra rosa

Casting a three D shadow on the beaches of Times
wanting the Times New Roman to reappear near by

The virtual Colossus staring at them
opening The Daily Post on a fresh croissant

The horses are dancing and the market is crumbling
La Principessa swiftly grabs her sword

And Frida sings La Paloma Negra

On a clear sky night
The sound of harmonica dancing
By the angles of the Moon

Drum pounds  widespread
Waves floating in an ecstatic pace
The quiet bay listened with radiant Shells

Star specks lit sky humming
The Earth murmuring deeply
Pines reverberating in back chorus

Kids giggling around trippin' in thick dark
Tripping over some minor rocks, happy to
Embrace the unexpected music, dogs wiggling

Heavenly carousel shining upon their faces
Theater dreaming  of the joyfull now
This exuberant laughter unsyncopated

Steps rhythm fading on their paths
Instruments put down, sounds of
Crickets, bare naked, two plunges