what was  in the longest sleep I have ever had?
dreams of mistletoe or camels
the brunch with the Dalai Lama
or George Harrison's hair
in my hands,
and had I any dream?
I don't know....
just rest
for me,
a quiet peace.
a piece of God.

To be more
than the shame
staining my skin
a pallid shade
of grey,
would be more
than the dreams,
painting the windows
of my mind
with a rosy tint,
of hope
of chance;
it would be
all.

But,
is this pinkish-haze
from the comfort
of reveries,
as I’m enveloped
in velvety corolla?
Or are these
the malignant,
sardonic
barbs,
that foretell
my fate
as a truthless soul
in an honest
reality?

one two three
a loop in my head
i count my steps
to the grave

one two three
breaths in a row
faltering
atlas under a globe of grief

one two three
the mortician mutters
hitting the lever
a box in descent

one two three
relatives
trail off
weaving through the stones

one
matriarch in shambles
a perfect pietá
lingering by the hollow

two
a couple broken
separated
by the greatest door

three*
wails punctuate her sentence
goodbye bill
I’ll always love you

I stopped dreaming a long time ago.
Hoping was replaced by survival,
Imagination by the grey grind of life.
I gave up.
I don't want to dream.
I fear the colors;
Blinding, dazzling, befuddling.
I don't want to hope,
I know I have to wake up
once dawn's bleak shadows
darken my window once more.
is it possible to sleep
if you're afraid of dreaming

See the cruelty of it all
**** that pig
Cut his throat
Spill her blood
The poison can be felt in the air
Permeating everything
The stench of hate
The baying for blood
All in the name of some imaginary friend
That demands blood
in exchange for
a ******, 72 mansions
a heaven on this earth we already destroyed.

There has to be more to life
than the elaborate mix
of endorphin, serotonin and dopamine.
There has to be more to this moment
than that seductive dance
between fight, flight and adrenaline.
There has to be more to each instance
than the tantalizing stroke of color on the palette of the eye
or the soothing spice of music that brings us to sighs.
More to it than the anticipation of a lover's caress,
or the murmur of a long forgotten scent.
More to it than the cringing from death,
the constant race from pain,
fear
of cigarette smoke, radiation,
gluten and epidemics.
More to it than tears and kittens,
Bougainvillea bushes and hot-rods.
Treasure hunts, graffiti,
date nights and shopping malls.
There has to be more,
for if there isn't,
Why are we so afraid to let "This" go?
Why are we so afraid to die?

I need more souls around.
Look-
the knife I chewed up sharp
sways and dangles a glaring charm,
(and a charming glare)
double knotted on a piece of rope and
tucked under my shirt.
It bruises my breastbone when I jump.
I’m always jumping.

I don’t cut paradise into pieces anymore.
I take it all in with one quick bite.
I’m hardly chewing;
I never learned to savor
and it hasn’t rotted me out yet.

Late last week I had an idea.
I told the room:
(thirty eyes squinting,
a dozen minds listening,)
‘Let's get together and refuse
to acquire a taste for civility.’
So what do you think?
I was only speaking to you.

I've been playing a private game
all summer and I keep scoring.
I wear long skirts and eyeliner
and keep my mouth shut.
I trapeze across centuries and well traveled
roads with my long hair
and track the pontential and power
assigned to my quiet smile
and gentle pout.

The world can be mine with a
flick of my wrist, a lick of my lips-
But I don't want it:
i'm here to expel, not to endure,
the point is to leave as light
as possible.
I won’t win until I have nothing left to carry.

Tonight I'll just seer sailors;
soldiers call to me
like I’m their sole daughter, their soul daughter,
dripping green jewels and deep, brown
curls onto tan toes and
dancing in the road-
(eyes decidedly closed,
rush hour.)

I gulp in smoke from their pipes
while spinning circles in the dirt.
My voice trails over tree branches,
my lungs smolder and ashe.
I smile sweetly-slow.

When I do meet their gaze-
(measuredly striking; a tender,
lingered look which veers me from gypsy to divinity,)
they tense.
They call out
You are my Odyssey.
You are my Wild Waves.
you are my Purple Heart.

Skipping stones over oceans and puddles,
I keep nodding and careening.
I keep coursing and coiling,
keep slurring my words,
refusing my name
and pocketing your promises.
I gave up on air-drying my skirt,
(You are not what I’m thinking of.)

I’m only a little bit of what’s left--
everything we tried to know,
everything we only read once-
everything we left in footnotes of
essays, under passenger seats
and tangled in the bed sheets
of that swollen-heart name
no longer spoken.
I'm only the woven wires
and reins braiding bold
acrylic cities across knuckles
and palms, flashlight
illuminated and glowing.
It's new skin shimmering in the
daylight, pearling over
and throbbing awake
in places only I can see.

maybe that wasn't really me
that
drowning
sinking
feeling
or the crisp autumn air that touched my cheeks
maybe that was just--

oh
but what if it was me?
what a sweet feeling
to know that I was alive
even though I was dying
to know that I had lived
even though my last thought
my last breath
may be the ones currently occupying
that space
in which I most certainly was--

and then when it did go black
when there truly was nothing left
and my body no longer recognized
what it saw
what it felt
what it hoped
what it dreamed
yes,
when there was truly nothing left--

ahh I see
yes,
how silly to think
that it wasn't me
brushed with the feeling of wet pavement
a glimpse of the churning grey sky
on the other side
and my thoughts became so small
that the color red became irrelevant
and my skin
such a porcelain white
touched by many hands
but none were mine--

how silly really
to think
I was still alive

-h.j.-

It didn't matter
That i could outyell him
That when he forced his way in
I forced my way out
That when he grabbed my throat
I threw him off
Held him down
Told him it was over
It didn't matter
It didn't matter that i "won"
It still hurt