i have
blood on my hands
in more ways than one
but when you cup
each of my palms in turn and
place in them the instruments
that you use to keep death at bay i am
grateful to be holding your
blood in my hands
as your husband steadies you against
the clanging of the train, the second
strip thirsting
after your lifeblood as parched
earth after rain
and for blood money returning

a number
as though the streams
coursing through your veins
were reducible to
so many pieces of silver.

The dried petals of a once green love
snake through the beige carpet--
along with potato chips,
along with icy *****,
along with grey ash of cheapshit incense,
my empire soles trample in after work.

Susan smiles and tries to reheat the leftovers.
Our bulging bellies match from a marriage of coping strategies,
stretch mark'd and daydreaming of
other seasons; sweat on foreign sheets,
other napes; Mediterranean baby's breath,
other scents; a choice between gardenia and gasoline,
Susan's a liar.
Of deceit--I've grown tired.

Newspaper, newspaper bring me a bullet.
Doorbell, doorbell bring me a blushing nomad in need of bruising.
Ringtone, ringtone bring me DHS and an actual Friday.

Susan tucks me in to the Lullaby of the Infomercial,
her fingernail seeps into my lower lip.
I roll onto my side.

Winter, summer, rain and sun
all in one. You’ve become that someone
I never knew was my half, to make us one.
Never is there anyone strong enough to make a disconnect-
ion from me to you; distance only makes me
want to intersect with you. Thoughts of us interject,
punctuate, dominate my day-to-day
The words you say penetrate; they stand and stay, residing deeply
In my space, my consciousness, the graffitied wall
that is my soul. You’re a permanent brand,
a dye that can never be bleached nor fade away;
you’re a hue that tinges my awareness every day.
The light of my dynamite,
the defined constellation in midnight skies,
gentle hands to tears I cried…
Where are you now?

L.A likes tan.
Workout clothes,
To prove that your body
Wasn't crafted by the Gods

New York  City likes pale.
Chic fashions,
To prove you aren't from
Queens.

L.A likes thin & healthy.
They scream out,
"WE HATE FAT PEOPLE."
And their year-long sun
Lets you show off your
2 inch thighs.

NYC likes thin & ******.
They hiss it at secret cocktail parties.
But they don't want you to show off.
You need to drown in sweaters.


You're perfect, love.
Keep smiling<3

I just have to admit that my body is astonishing.
My skin is other worldly-
I glisten like an alien goddess.
My heartbeats of its own fruition-
air grows in my lungs and blooms
on the surrounding surfaces. I
have a power that lives between my thighs-
and when I focus it on an object-
that object crumbles in my lusting wake.
My fingernails grow to fierce and frightening lengths
and rap upon the earth with bubbling impatience.
My legs flow like water into my jeans
and ***** out of them.
(I make you question your understanding of words like lady,
*****, ******, sensuality, knowledge and maybe even manhood)
Shoulders that drip delicately with all my emotions-
you can feel my depth in the warmth of  my soul
as your hand grazes the small of my back.
I am every song ever written,
every note ever played,
every thought you have ever had
at an ungodly hour
in ripped jeans
and an off the shoulder sweater.
(I am understated provocative librarian ***
on top of a cool metal desk
next to the life changing novel you read,
my back arching over the paperwork you
can’t begin to think about because
of the way I look laying over them
with one stiletto still on and the other caught on my big toe
calling to you)
My tongue is wet with enthusiasm
My fingers are laced around humanity
Every piece of me is alive with the knowledge
That my body
Is
Astonishing.

We try to write
And dance and sing
And other silly
Creative things.
Getting nowhere
Slowly die
Erode our souls
Sell out and lie.
Magnum opus
Left half done
Can't afford to
Have much fun.
I'm over dramatic
But our lives are real
Working, *******.
To borrow or steal?
We wait for a chance
But in the meantime
We watch the rain
And drink wine.

The rusty
red earth
created
beneath your feet
is all you have to your name.

Angel laugh
(bells)
Broken lyre strings lining the floor like
carpet

Never look
down.

Don't hide
your scarred knees
from the world
don't cage your beating heart
with your ivory ribs

But rather
bare yourself
to the unforgiving universe

Try until your fingers bleed
and your hair grows silver with the wind
be thankful for every breath that fills your gasping lungs
and sing to the wind that you are alive
with the song still in you.
The ridges of your lips
tell stories of women
gained and lost
like pounds
or wooden pencils
from grade school

Behind a thicket of eyelashes
(downcast)
you weep
and laugh
with the same pair of bright eyes.

Pearl smile
(glint in the sunlight)
safe in the lines of your eyes.

Crane your pale neck
like a swan;
watch the cliff
burst open with sparrows and
rock doves.

Hands.
(tactile)
In your mind the song of color
shower water and
a tri-tone
thick as the sound of thighs upon thighs
helium-light
sorrow-heavy

Words.
The way you say anything
and nothing
clean-cut by the shears of your tongue
at the end of the rope.

Song.
Polyphony of your voice
and the sound of the storm
as you stand
arms outstretched
rain-soaked and cold
with bright glass eyes
and a warm heart
the storm crescendos
with the rise and fall of your hands
rain falling like cigarette smoke
on your upturned face
You taste on your tongue
yourself
passion and salt
slightly sweetened
by cologne
and the grainy bitterness
of skin

Soul.
This vase full of tears
like your breakable soul
(tastes like wildflowers and rain)
this lace-feathered honey hair
perfection contained in one white body
in one frosted-glass soul.