I.
He doesn't have a
harmonious voice but he
does know what soul is

II.
She hated his song.
But, secretly in love, she
forgave him for it

My breath goes to you
Not my dying breath, but the
bubbles from this sigh

Eyes are sensitive
Heart is foul on the outside
But you are moving on

Scarlet, come to me
shine on me, want me, drag me
to a white altar

You can't just
say deep things
Deep things come
naturally

The globe on top of
the cabinet wants to fall
Has a world of woes

I.
Strong people, sitting
on their cold porches, smoking
Hopeful calories.

II.
They know they throw their
calories away, but they
like what they do have.

III.
Consume what you like.
What do you want for your life?
Not wishes, nor guns.

Jack Kerouac give
me your mind so that I may
live your legacy

I just want you to
lay your head on my shoulder
while I write these words

If I grow weary
by the end, do not come back.
Forget about me.

"So you're a writer?
That must be what brings you here.
Tell me where you've been."

How can a shallow
girl giggle so much? Maybe
her jokes are witty.

They’ll end up calling me
“The one with all the paint samples?”
If they ask, they won’t
know my favorite color
because I won’t know
my favorite color either
And so my soul, too,
would remain unknown

I want to write a story called
Pink Heather
about a soul that felt blue
A girl not yet herself,
an entirely wrong hue

Tell mother I found my way
and this time I'll stay

Tell insegnante I've got something to say
and it all still sounds the same
but I'm saying it my way

Tell my favorite songs
I think they're too long
because they contain
more than what I've seen

Yell at the devil for being too loud,
leaving me deaf, though I hear
well enough, and tell him I've heard,
well, enough of his cliche,
heavy metal crowd

Yell at the band wagon
Tell it to stop for an oil change,
and make sure it never rides again
Its passengers have something to say,
though they don't want to stay
but they don't want to go away,
though their noses are too long,
and there's no fire in their song

Tell them to say it their way
though they want to runaway
from their minds and from their hearts
while never growing apart
They can't have the best of both worlds
My mind curls

to the beat of its own bongos
and shades of pink and red and black
I find I don't lack

firm ground,
but am more abundant in frowns
sometimes more abundant in smiles.
Depends on the weather.

After  the people leave, that's when
I know where I've come,
how far I've come back to them

So tell my best friend I'm still intact
Tell the crowd I'm not out-of-whack
Tell my favorite songs I've turned them into facts
Tell all poets their words aren't to blame
Tell mother that I'm okay

I give in... I give in...
I wear my sweaters thin
because nothing ever feels
hyper-real
I know kids who get raw experience
yet call me the wiser
for not getting any.

No one who sits at their dinner table,
pretending to have something to write,
deserves to be tired
and so I don't catnap
under the constipated clouds
waiting for the rain.

I grow old--I grow old
I don't like my trousers rolled
as I walk down the street
watching young people
who don't give themselves a break
from hyper-living
Just keep kicking.

Not to generalize,
but it must be said
that a barbarous youth doesn't give in
until their metal beams split
and their windows come down
and their doors can't open
because of the debris
and their admirees
stand before the pile still not knowing
who they are.

(It won't make them shiver
to think you've opened up
listening to their music
unless they open
their ears for you.)

After dusting themselves off
will all the newborn adults shake hands
look back on the skyscrapers that surrounded them
and be friends?

I give in
I relax over my comfortable,
blank lines
with nothing to write
because I'm the only one
with nothing to fight.

Every night was tortellini
when were roommates.

I complained about my chapped feet;
you bought me the wrong socks.
Black, mens, I clarified,
but you kept buying the women's.
Then one day you got it right,
only they were for you
because black is a warmer color than white,
and the socks of a man felt like cherubs.

I complained about my chapped feet,
you the heart of the world,
its cold silence.
But we remained "alright".
You bought new pajamas every night
and painted a beauty mark on your face
to match.

Years of x-marked places on our bodies
which no one saw because
we were cynics,
I the most.
No roses at our mat--we grew our own bushes,
ordered the ones with the extra thorns.
I charmed that snake,
you bit me on its behalf.
That I'd do such a thing
was shameful.

We were girlfriends in a can of salt,
tears in our eyes, mouths and ears.
We drank wine in bubble baths in our clothes
for three days straight,
or even four,
after that guy dumped you.

From then on
every night was tortellini,
La Dolce Vita, and--

and the freckle below your ear,
the horns growing from my forehead,
the way your falsies touched your cheeks,
late nights looking brighter
than they should,
than they normally would.
Pretending to be goddesses awaiting their gods--

while I awaited you.

Then you felt them too,
touched my head as though it were a fever.
I always knew you hated the suburbs,
and I did listen
when you complained about the gray rooftops
and the saturated green lawns--
"Give them a chance, please.
Then we'll get away--"
I begged, I relented--

The wine, finally, fermented.
You remember what I said next,
because after that you broke my heart.
I never doubted it was a bad idea
to say it



but I said it
and you left.

Morning to me is watching the boy eat
while I impatiently tap my book
with a pencil.

Singing,
"Excess ain't rebellion
Your drinkin' what they're sellin'..."
while he painstakingly tries
to play air guitar and grab strawberries
at the same time.

My favorite time of day
is when it's too early to lie to myself
in small ways,
or even in positive ways.

Makes the dew damper felt,
though the coffee more disgusting,
sunlight brighter,
though shadows darker,
secrets less loud,
though truth remains quiet and tired

And for a moment I'm a gazelle
who hasn't yet fallen
to a lion's teeth
For the night I give in
to the stampede
and--this time for good--keep going

Going, going,
wind beaten as a sailor,
though I may be
flying the way a peacock does
(It's only a feeling, like peace is to a dove)

Let me say something
about the animals--
they keep going, too
They keep going for us
(I am no vegetarian, but sometimes,
instead of meat, I only need
to eat dust.)

For the same reason, I go on
until fed to something larger
than this small person inside
And, like an animal, I don't ever
feel the need to cry

Ribbons calling against the wind,
stronger than our fences.
   Ribbons crawling to our feet
speak of our potential--
   They break our defenses

Tuesday's got a broken hot rod
It drives too slow, or doesn't go
Tuesday's got a lazy day ahead,
has creativity at best
has no productivity
but many things to arrest
And she's not only a loner
driving on a road,
she just doesn't want an answer
wants to keep her glow
Where is it?
Not where she thinks it is
Not in the trunk
not in the birdcage with the canary
not in the pistol in her kiss
Where is Tuesday going?
Not to Wednesday, that's for sure
Thursday's daydream makes her
unable to settle down anymore
She smiles, the sun is setting
If only Tuesday could learn to fix
that broken hot rod already

I'm not going to be able to see you soon
I love it when you get a new song
And the rest of my favorite thing about it is not the same thing as the first place we went
The fact is that I don't know if you want me
The fact is the best way
For a long day
Is to make it so hard for us to reconcile

I'm not sure how I can see you soon
The only person who has been in my head
Hurts like the new version
Of a sudden urge to watch something burn
I love it when people are going out
I love it when I'm not going to be able
To see my friends and the other day
I didn't even get a job
Like I said I had

Fifteen minutes to
Tap my toes, speak a little ("write")
Give a little time

All you are doing
is telling death how to die
I already know

Sometimes your face is
a little blurred, but then you
have a little fun

The chair wheels are caught
On the carpet and I don't
Want to speak aloud.

If beds of flowers
Rise from concrete for the sun,
There is magic here.

Performing a storm
Is straining a chord, heart-string
Or a lightweight step.

Famous or known, wise
or grown, gone or just zero?
Grained or unraveled?

Brisk air can soothe you
Because warmth isn't enough to
Entertain your lungs

What a strange feeling
Treading across the Taj Mahal
Floor as it look back at me

I.
Swinging blonde hair goes
Out onto the balcony,
A tangible breeze

II.
Beige coat swaying to
Get home late, never mind a
Lecture.  She's a youth.

III.
Red lips bleeding more,
Orange dripping down her shirt,
Almond eyes who give,

IV.
Sprouted white skies are
Where she gets those thighs, giving
A prolonged heart  'til...



End

Air crushes ice crush--
--ing people, stabbing careless
Thoughts building madness

To take an image
Cut it open, step into
A pretty coven

Here is a face for
You, Mystery Man, colleague,
Strawberry farmer

Guidelines:
1. Free-association must be preceded with the phrase, “I love you.”
2. Furthermore, approach writing with passion. Note: do not approach aggressively.
3. Continue until physically unable.

                                             **Recite the following:
        I, Aula Tullius Sulla, will never forget how I felt writing this. I do solemnly swear, for once and for real, to fully appreciate every word. I will think of the tear shed before and after “letting it out” whenever I am obligated to “let it out”.
     I will never be a plumber or an entrepreneur nor anything else “more stable” than writing, because living a comfortable life does not cure my unstable heart. I recognize the monster painted white and covered with straight lines has no authority.
       All senses are hereby owned by the heart, which retains authority over the mind. I promise to work in close collaboration with both. The following piece of literature is mine, all rights reserved, and will not be touched without permission. I recognize that giving permission may result in excess exposure, failure, or fame. All works constitute as chaotic beauty, but consequential wounds may be mended regardless.
    [Repeat x 100] I love to write.

So this isn't the demon
you told me about

It's awfully common,
you say,
of a person my age
to feel hyper-reactive
once in a while
To walk a mile
in her own head,
painting it petty and sparkling

But maybe I should
at least know better
than to ride the flamboyant
hell
To make the day one
long yell
"Let's piece together
these undeserved rags,"
they make me think
as I glide from
one face to the next

I am not Cinderella
I am her
kin
If I were old enough
I would drink myself
down with a bottle of
gin
Of gin made from kin
and refused help

"Untalented", I claim
heresy to my personality
Thinking, "everyone looks better than me,
but no, I can be better than them"
And I hear you say,
"What a sin, tsk, tsk, tsk!"

And the other demons,
they say, "Let her
stay!
Let her
stay!"

The diva's not the demon
you speak of

Who is it really?
Introduce him or her
Has it ever occurred
to you that
we would make
a good pair
of masters, of narcissists,
of lovers

A team everywhere
in all the bad places
Performing an absurd show
Breaking hearts

Gone again Here again
Gone again Then back
Gone again Here again
Returned so out-of-whack
Gone again, again
Again Again
Again Again

Welcome home
Where you are madly
Brilliant

Because you're down again
Here again, up again
All around again again
Then you win
Every turn of phrase, all the days
Every phase beginning
Every morning
And ending every morning
You mourn for no particular
loss, you are lost only
a moment, but you hone it
Yes darling you cherish
that smile
The pleasant weather says
Please stay awhile and

You do because the weather is nothing new

Darling you
Grow again Shrink again
Gone again Then back
I disappear again
Again...
Again...

Yet it seems life is not repetitive

Do what you know is right
The fae-eyed stare
Pulls you outward
Thank them for the cool air
Brushing your feverish hair
Stop walking
Sit down before the world
Falls on your shoulders


I care enough to
bake a batch of innocence
before I go and
I struggle with my sweaters
everytime that it snows
And some days are more
difficult
than others, yes I'm not
often present in front
of the mirror
But give me a little time
to buy new furniture
And put things back
where they belong
Won't be long

Soon
I will swim without falling
Soon
I'll be able to observe
strangers while sitting
on a park bench
without being accused
of stalking

Soon
I can pause
for comedic timing [thank you, thank you]
Soon
maybe I'll have a new
best friend who I can
make out with
strings attached
And he'll like my hair
(...as much as I do)
Soon
people will say things
and really fathom
their words
They're wrong--
Won't be long

Until
I have a little fun
Until
I get to see someone
fall in love
Until
we crash and dance and
burn simultaneously
as if dying after living
only a short time
that felt long
Until
I die alone but maybe
a bit happy on the side
Then until
I live again

You say to yourself,
"Do what you know is right
and hang strife from the sun"
How do I know when I've
won?
("Won" is just a letter
and an apostrophe from
"won't"
And that's the funny thing
The future hasn't
met us yet, but it knows
how to play games)
Here's the perfect analogy
ever created:
To reach the answer
is to dig down down down
to china!

Yet doesn't it feel like
a daydream?
Like befriending your
favorite celebrity or perhaps
even seeing the end
of a war begun before
your lifetime

When all you can do is

Sit down, stop walking
before the future clutches
your arms, pressing
hard.
This is when you pull outward
and away.
You stare with those
unblinking, glassy eyes
who look omnipotent because
you're middle-aged and
they contain the
words from your wild youth.
(And with these words I can say
'I love you', future which I
will come to know.)

The closet which is warm
and cautious
has enough goals to drive-by
Hit-and-run ridding of
the winning that I live by
I struggle to walk in flip-flops
in the summer
But remind me that I'm
somewhat lost and I enjoy it,
sort of, once in a while,
Especially when everything
comes together again

It's alienation across the nation.


End of the break
the whistle's blowing
The sailors going only a short way
to heavens
Subterranean souls, yet
extraterrestrial minds
(I want to have a magnificent, celestial time)
Someone is dead
True, someone might be
curled in dread, somewhere
But the staff chooses not to
voice these concerns
to their guests

They-are-all
transported
to a place where their veins
don't show up blue
under that black light, yellow
dans-le-ciel
It's a dalliance for souls
(They are all lost.)
A denouement for souls
(How much does it cost?)

Better question,
who sends them here
(Every zephyr is cold)
who sends them here
to die and behold?
If I had a friend
they would ask,
"Why so alone?"
Because I move with the

Tintinnabulation across the nation.
People saying the most
cringe-worthy---
Like the nation
I fear I have become
an *imbrication
repeating myself in every
application
Working on that steamboat
the-band-wagon
isn't as good as it gets
Saccharine, summery lake
Do we, perhaps, need to escape?

And, perhaps, we can.

Dominated as we are
by Society, who is crying in need
Believes we must be a
panoply!

Drop the rocks
Full-grown pop in the jaw
Bleeding gold
Won't save your soul
Moving again and again and again and again
Until the pacific
Closes behind your back
because criticism smacks
kids out of whack
Morphemes-phonemes again
and again
Given the knowledge
of a recycling bin of
letters

Use them again and again
Won't save your soul
Atom smash logic replaying
and playing before your eyes
Some days it's too much
coal to mine
Mouth covered when you
step in time
Won't make your life
I'm a goner if I can't
stand on the rocks
and if the laundry doesn't burn
If the grim reaper doesn't speak
nonsense words from one
state of consciousness
to the other

Drop the bomb
Call the mob
Stock our shelves
Grow the letters
Feed all those starving
tongues

Let me tell you a story
Once the grim reaper
dressed like an old woman
and bought denture cream
just to know how it feels to
grow old
A human is an animal
Some think an olive is a fruit
A dog is a wolf on the inside
Begging to learn the trick
Speak

Next in line most wait
for straight prose
pinch their noses misguided
Want blood to bleed red
Don't want ideas to smash
their bread
Won't save their minds
from a punch in the gut
Mine closing in their faces
and their Atlantic drowns
shattered glass
encasing words upon words
owned by streams of

Consciousness running
all around
Those nonsense words
running aground
can't swim though all
the world's frowns.

Don't leave me loving you
Here alone
***** my finger, at least,
and lull me to sleep
before you go.

I'm supposed to be in school
yet we bring ourselves here
Friend, we bring ourselves
here to write
They call me irresponsible
yet I felt sick this
morning, throat and mind red
And so I grabbed you out
of there, in need of a
little help to make this day
worthwhile
Let's make this day
worthwhile
I pulled you out of the
burning house up there
to write

Of the piano man
I've never heard, and
am gracelessly missing out
on him. Cannot thank
him for inspiring me
because I refuse to listen. He's
playing in concert only blocks
away, or perhaps on YouTube, but
who needs him? I ask myself
this on the surface--
deep down I know that
I do.
Walking all over the town in
other directions, still
can't get away from the
violin accompaniment, the truthful
tones. I've
no hope, I won't hear him
I've no hope for relation, I
won't listen. Run
everywhere, find myself there

He says, "Welcome home my
lost dreamer."

Teen sits in his room
reflecting on the walls and tables
Sometimes this place is a cafe
and is a little bit unstable
Crosses his legs,
forgets the dread,
self-hood brings him back
from the troubles inside his head
Take his hand, lead him out the door,
stoke his fire a little bit more

Adolescence,
Adolescence be free
Sweet adolescent boy, come back to me

Rests his head
upon the floor,
even the most grotesque things
won't bug him anymore
Young man doesn't watch them dance,
he knows he must grow his own steps before
they slip through his fingertips

Adolescence,
Adolescence be free
Sweet adolescent boy, come back to me

Young man, be your own man
You're halfway there, so don't disappear
again
The cafe is crowded,
yet you're not alone, not stuck in one place
like a drone
You move across the room, bright and tall,
and never again going to fall
Like you did the day before
your soul returned to just being a kid

Adolescence...

you are adolescent.