glued to crushed velvet
i think in hues of blue
tonight and wonder
what you see when
you stare at your
ceiling in the bronx

is it waterlogged and
cracking? or smooth
and perfectly painted
in eggshell white? or
maybe it's stuccoed,
or patterned, or hand
painted with naked
angels floating about?

turn on your transformers
and fire up the transporter

i'm coming to lay
side by side to see
what it is you see
when you tell me
you're thinking of me

fingertips reach into burrows tonight,
brooklyn and bronx,
where i most wish i could lay
these bones that wish to be buried

count seconds,
hold breaths,
make wishes,
then promises,
to gods i don't
believe exist,
so that i may
look into eyes
that truly know
what goes on
behind mine

fire off framed fragrances and
feinding freight trains headed
for longing, lust, and love in all
of the ways that i could've sworn
i left when the bed was still wet
and my memories weren't those
of a woman without remorse

days spent
looking 'round
corners with
mirrors,
tales told  
of creatures
that turn liars
into stone,
step slowly,
hold steady,
fire quickly,
and give
always to
the great
unknown

we have a peace plant in our living room
when it's thirsty it's leaves drag on our dust
filled floors and it's blooms look like the
eyelids of the old ******* that walks
around on grant street when she's looking
for change to buy her next forty- brown,
bruised, and sagging, as if they've seen
enough to last them a lifetime

i oblige the ***** often, giving her
quarters and whatever else i can find
in my backpack, i oblige the plant too,
giving it water and opening the blinds,
but neither seem to be reaching a better
quality of life, despite my best efforts

i find myself in inconceivably unforgiving
situations often, because of my best
efforts, and i'm beginning to wonder
when i lost sight of what it means
to really, truly, wholeheartedly give

where do thoughts go when they are forgotten?

i find mine weeks later,
scribbled on old show fliers
and scattered around the living room
after nights spent smoking 'til i'm spent,
written on walls, bed posts, bookshelves
in sharpie and black pen while i lay
in bed and lament over loss and being lost,
hidden on crumpled receipts from
store visits where i've spent what i don't have,
that are then shoved into the dark depths
of purses i've thrown into closet corners
only to be found when digging for
something to wear just before laundry day

often times i go to let the words
plummet to the page and i feel stuck,
then i picture the pieces of my past
scattered all around my apartment,
if only i'd keep these lost chunks of my
mind in neat little piles so that when
the blocks inevitably come i've got
miles of material to work with

unfortunately i've got a knack for
foresight in less ways than i'm willing to
admit, so here i sit, wishing for
my thoughts that have wandered away

i wonder what flies across
your mind as you lay and stare
at blank ceilings before the night
sweeps you under blankets and
pillows, and tugs your eyelids
closed with gravity's grace

i wonder if you see strange faces,
or maybe places that you've been,
but probably will never revisit,
i once read you can only dream
things you've seen before, but i
get the feeling your brain has a
way of inventing far away lands
that no one else will ever see

i wonder if you dream long drawn
out adventures or if you skip from
place to place, like an old film reel
with holes missing between frames

i wonder if you wake up scared and
sweating, or if you keep your eyes
closed as long as you can to savor
what's being swept away, or if you
sleep with a pen in your hand so
that you can scribble sacred records
of the remnants from the inbetween

i wish that i could shrink myself
and spend a night behind your eyelids,
witnessing whatever it is that unfolds

the answer comes
quicker than most,
stop slaughtering time
and start living

warm night breezes
in a false summer start
make it easy
to do just that

being gorgeous
is all a game of
projections and
precision, with a
drop or two of
luck in the gene pool

do you know
how many times
i have stood, ****,
in front of a man
and heard
those words
drip, slippery with
*** and saliva,
through foaming lips?

big headed beasts
who still haven't
figured out where
to find my ****

oh, but desire me, they do
and i'm always the best
****
they've ever known

'oh baby, how DO you DO
that thing with your hips?'

i lay around wondering
why these men
subject themselves
to *******
dead fish

when it's over they
can't keep fingers
from lingering on my
skin, tattooed ribs
draw out long sighs
and desperate whispers,
followed by lingering
on my
'perfect ****'

then it comes, oh,
how *******
gorgeous i am,
with my eyes that
just can't decide
if they want to be
the bark or the leaves

intrigued by my
beguiling mystique
and desire to be free,
but the sad truth is,
fools or not,
each and every one
does the same thing,
they leave

should've listened
when dad said,
'get compliments
for being smart,
not pretty'