Pain begats pain begats mo pain
series, succession. string, sequence
-a chain
I'd like to pretend that I was surprised
but I cannot feign
-ignorance
woven intricately into the fabric that is me
-it courses through my veins

I realize that it sounds inane
maybe even a little insane
but it is what it is
and what it is  
-is a stain

It's so hard to abstain
from feeling and inflicting this pain
this same pain that's been ingrained
from the generations before
-they opened that door and
lacked the knowledge or strength to obtain
the necessary tools to annihilate and decimate
the entrance into things
that would
devastate, level and obliterate
their children and their children and their children and
-my children

On my campaign to feel less pain
I entertain the demons
Mary Jane and *******
In my inebriated state, I was unable to ascertain
the damage that I'd added to my heart and brain

Nothing eased the pain or the shame
All that I had left was the pain
the pain
the pain

So, there I stood
beating my chest and screaming toward heaven
...praying for rain...

my love for you
is the wildest rivers of my poetry
where the night melts into
oblivion and all i can feel is your
love, devouring me, desiring me,
uncovering me, until
i am but blood and bone,
a bluesy wind instrument
serenading the skies.
in your love everything that
i need, every tender star
a bird gliding in
the night, moon-ful,
soulful, wrapped in silvering
dream. climb, climb to the
running hills where i’ll reach you,
leave me burning feverish
and excited, wrap me in your love.

“A woman is like a virus until you throw her from the Golden Gate Bridge in queer Saint Francis. As she plummets to a watery dislocation you call after her: 'I'm in love with your sister!'”

“Arguing with a woman is like throwing her argumentative *** into the turgid waters beneath the Golden Gate Bridge. She'll float but not immediately.”

I am loud,
Demanding attention.
I know when I am being charming
Because I try.
I put on my impressing face
And do my impressing hair
And speak my impressing words.
I tell you my embarrassing drinking stories
And everything else about me
That you probably shouldn’t know.

I am not good at being quiet
Because that’s not who I am.
I am not the sweet girl
Who will leave you with a smile
And a touch
And a glance
Or a single word.
There is nothing of this fashion of romance
About me.

I am the girl who will point out your flaws,
And take you outside to see the stars,
And remind you how human you are,
And what a wonderful thing that is.

I am the girl who will talk about science,
And music and theology and history,
And point out constellations, laughing,
When you don’t know the big dipper’s name.

I am the girl who will make witty references,
To classic literature and science fiction,
And will tell you stories of how I once,
Made a gingerbread replica of a lighthouse.

I am the girl who will stand on a table,
And sing at the top of my lungs on the highway,
And act like a chicken or quail or velociraptor,
Or nuzzle your face like a lion to make a point.

I am the girl who takes too many shots
And then coaxes you to bed on a Russian liver,
And knows all the right places to bite, and tease,
And follows with exceptionally coherent pillow-talk.

I am not a thin silk scarf on the wind.
I am not a thing hard to capture.
You would not spend a perilous journey
Through a wild, perfumed jungle,
Searching for my slender garments
Hung beside a pool
As I wail to the breeze.

Rather, I am the bird who flies overhead
Making too much noise
Distracting from the trail ahead.
A bird whose plumage proves
What an interesting life it must be…
What a colorful life for me…
Perpetually strange
The lone comic relief.

I am many things.
But I am not quiet.
Of this I am sure.