A girl wishes the wind
would blow the hair off her scalp
Strong and abrasive, it
struggles with her like a friend
hoping to get a little peace and quiet
For once would she just relax,
enjoy some Tonight Show,
some Late Night
and step out of the penitent
date nights.

I was a tap dancer once
back in the day
I enjoyed myself rather much
until I fell down a hill
broke both my legs
awoke to much blood. Things
became quite unclear
So I had a couple of beers,
thought I'd make a couple of
friends.

People in this city
they leave you mid-conversation
Before you even get started
Look at your paralyzed talent,
see that you are not
well-guarded, and you fall on
your face.
You embrace their words.

When I was a kid
I became a tap dancer
for love. Those were the days
I could still feel
My skull fresh, new ideas
peeling out
Twirlings, stomping, toe-trappings, beats
poetries.
Tries and fails straight from
a bleeding heart--
Don't get me started on my legs
Once upon
they were there now they're gone
along with souls of shows of
audiences of happiness of
life of
everything I had known.

People in bustling cities
they leave you on your way
before they let you stay
Look at you paralyzed talent,
see that you are not
well-guarded, you lose a
good pace.
You embrace their eyes on your face.

Once upon I was a tap dancer now I'm gone
Meanwhile you better miss me
One of us is too blind to see
these artist's legs heal
Back in the day, I'd been a real steal
Now, lying here,
does it matter?
No, I still bled on the snow
I'm still very sorry
for what I've done to myself,
what I let them do to me
People are so kind
but they want so much
I climbed high, for them.
And I fell in spite of them.
Their cackles and Ahs had
stunted my growth
Limbs not strong enough to
make the voyage

By then
the love which marked my youth
had gone.

People of the lighted cities
they want you looking oh-so pretty
before you are fully renewed
Paralysis is going away,
so bring me back well-guarded, ready to fall on
my face only to rise again.
I embrace their participation in the routine.

Stuck to the wall
with a pirate cringe, positivity illegal as sin
good vibes that almost hurt
like a wife-beater's undershirt
Tough to clean, hard to keep
even when the ground is getting steep
going up

They say it doesn't slam, gives you chance
it lays the land ahead
But I find the blue skies like to turn scarlet
and slip faithless from my wake
It's all me, all me
driving a stake through every chance I get

At regaining decorum--
which is hard to keep, tough to clean
after a massacre, a true disaster
The lawful bickers
of a girl curling in disgust because...


Because positivity feels counter-productive
Not to mention a little too...

Seductive.

These words are brought to you by a petty fit,
not a frolick, nor even
a moment of in-betweenness--
A ******-darling particulate fire
going up

I'm a lost soul, fingers cold
Stuck to the wall and let out a pirate cringe--
why don't you--
satisfy me with positivity legal as sin
Give me those good vibes, make them hurt
like a lover's wife's lacy undershirt
Nice and clean, hard to keep
especially when you're in. Too. Deep.
But you're only going up.
From. Here.

Every snow day she leaves stains
falling from her broken leg.
Then her wound dries into a coffee-stain,
it's warmth wishing for spring.
A long feud--becoming crusted from the wind--
ruined her day's nymph purity.

     The spirits grow weak
while prematurely birthed
and about as far-gone as Future.
That's the woe if the kingdom.

     Her doctors BLAZE
"It will stay," prescribe a
cup of gin
for those who think they rule Sundays.
Weather, whether bronze or silver, will always
give fate a gentle PUSH.

"Write with blood upon the snow," she says
to herself and for herself.
Flitting across a brightened lawn, a girl painting
the window. Then wiping it with an old cloth.
Thought the fairy, "If it must go--if we must move--
best it be to the rhythm of her
father's blues, her mother's industrial, funeral
porch-garden.

But
Yells of travesty aren't nearly as
stagnant as the physicians say--
because their rouge, fruitful words are sign
of another day.
Seemingly still--not"

Our cafe speaks in vowels and screams in consonants.
Hipsters sing asexual love music, or goodbyes
They claim the sun hurts their eyes

    And so, if chemistry's wet, shampooed hair
Breaks the cold, white-white windows
Musicians slam as if they know-know-know,
and know-it-all, up there, playing their songs.

    Old "Steward", highly-paid employee, on break
for a drink--says, "In the 30s we got none,
needed none."
He wants to mend the windows, send them home,
and get back to work.
But he is caught in sweltering heat

    Their heat.
rosing on every person's cheek
when they turn their heads,

    and observe chemical ties.
These mates speak better syllables

Rekindling of spirit
(folding in, billowing out)
with which we end the
day,
I dare you to
leave me.
The sun begs you to stay--
Give him the week off!
He needs a dozen
drinks!
Whiskey, gin, Pinot Grigio,
the whole lot!
He deserves a
feast!

And so the London Fog
stayed.
Coat and tea in hand,
thrown onto the mesh ground
despite,
tea arriving on cue--
Shallowed issues gone
askew,
Heart-screams louder
than the heart-worms
awash across the sidewalk

Day
dark like
Night

The
London Fog
Holds me tight

This door leads you right
where you are.
Scents and sights arriving
here are affirmation
of dying chemistry
between you and the world;
Therefore you sense them
stronger than man ever
has. Prophecies melt for
this inhuman moment, not
Unfamiliar to your spirit.

The Barista cooks you a
liquid meal, a brat hums
your favorite tune, but the
aftermath is they all leave.

Through a door which leads
them back again.

Daughter, son
Whatever  sensation
keeps them here with me
keeps you standing
stagnant
Ungasping, in need of
Gasping. A goner,
secret front-runner
This door leads you right
to yourself.
Scents and sensations
locked in our fish-eyes
Relinquish blindness, as is
your job.

Soufflé light massages my eyes
A cool oven breeze puts out the lies
I am a Goner,
no lives

Lived this day as
boredom gallops through.
Its hooves are in need of a deep clean
They don't allow the light to gleam.
So the light lets off steam

Horses halt, dragging thief feet in hope
of defeating this power,
wishing the paper would jam

But the sun, though none the wiser,
paints the walls and the faces.
Cooks a most creative meal.
Brings the stampede to a kneel.

Paint my lips
Scorch my soul, bring
Me ointment for the burn

Don't mind the gradient--
Colored heart swooning on
My shirt sleeve

It is supposed to be in
My breast pocket. It leaves
Quite frequently--
This is a woeful truth

I wish it were not so
But bear with me, dear, and
Don't forget the flowers.

I like flowers.

Describe It accurately

Once

And give It a twirl of hair and boho skirt

Describe It once

with love full of hatred or

strife

Until your arms & legs

Shiver, until your gemmed rings

SNAP!

to pieces

Until, when your glossy

fingernails melt, a monster's

heart burns with sympathy.

Call It on the phone, don't

apologize if you hadn't

used

the right

Words.

What am I?
Mother, father, (ladies first)
Can I be pretty?
It's warm in here, a green-
house of orchids. The ladies
& gentlemen come in to
have a look, woman's always
first.
At least,
give me the benefit of doubt;
Will I ever be pretty?
Doesn't matter much to me,
only, ladies first,
describe what it means to be
...human-god.
Human-god, human-god.
Jesus, and
I can carry my doubt like
a knapsack
through the cloud of eye-ful
bodies,  (fellow gods)

That is a lot of gold,
Missy.
Everything is metal,
it attracts me like the
reflection.
That is a unique thing,
Darling.
It brings me to
introspection;
is life vast? is there more,
for instance, than
that shiny--?
The word jumps from my lips
but you,
Sweetheart,
are bought for a high price.
The bidder is my heart.
Please try not to  object
to my being so objective.

Hundreds of orders behind but never
never
never
Never quite
out of business. I cut my finger often
but my carvings are cut, always
must be.
I owe the people wooden hearts
to call their own.
And I owe myself a living,
living with clocks and statues and cabinets
for some purpose
known by God.

Mirrors, paintings
Mirrors, paintings
of me.
Cut fingertips bandaged nicely
Always asked for, always acknowledged,
always gifting the best
each holiday season.
People are so modest, people are so kind,
People created the devil
called Wine.
That's what makes people oh-so
Divine.

A rule of acting:
"Real people lose."
They don't cross everything off the list.
Trophies, good days, and money
require a sacrifice of comfort
somehow already deceased.
It's a slow, steady process.
A long and sometimes plotless movie.
(By the way,
you know who will be talking to themselves
at the end.)

Sea captain who brings with him an air of comfort,
first mate, confetti egg shell,
metal-framed reservoir.
Cradle my head, pull my hand,
Stand.
Solve the equation for me. Don't.
Be my carriage horse. Roam free.
Burn the papers. Lock them away.
Join the feast. Serve us, **** the beast.

Begot, begetter
A stain-glass window, more like a painting
wet with thinner.
Broken calculator, hard-to-getter.
Man the weather--man the ship. Don't, I can do it myself.
Hideous, antique bird-feeder
favoring the magpies above all and doves the least.
Join the feast. Let us leave the little
beast alone, they've done nothing truly bad! because
Just a little cut doesn't hurt.
As long as the blood doesn't spurt.
As long as Sylvia is my dead friend.

As long as you're an indescribable friend,
always there among the bramble
of the old flower field, abandoned long ago.
In the 30s.

Sea captain who brings sun, my
first mate of all singing first mates, of
all operatic dancers.
Dance with me.

I always forget
Just how heavy
Water really is

I have written this day
Which I will call
Last Flowers of Spring

I will change your life,
your pensive rendezvous, and
that poppy-seed lean.

A pair of black shoes
draw a dollar bill from your hand
with their coal-dusted paws
But rumor has it
they prefer hundreds--because they're blue.
            Blue gets their wings trimmed
just right.

Wine is dry at Contessa's party.

Liquor gives it a merciful taste.
                        A little salt
(draw it from her body; it hangs
from her lashes)  adds to the universal
bitterness.
                                   Her sadness.


8-11-14

Fratellino's rock collection
turned into flower petals.
      Madre has a portrait of him
putting them in his hair, turning into Sorellina instead.

Boys play football in my heart
Their ball falls in a canal in
Venezia.
It's lost in
Venezia because I closed my eyes,
Guidebook in hand--
Phrasebook at my side--
Dictionary omnipresent somehow--

Mother calls them inside, it's time to learn again.

Someday I hope somebody
Finds the missing page and says,
"She's the murderer!
Didn't I say so? Didn't I tell you all?"

I first saw the wheat in the morning,
smelled the wind blustering forth--
Wondered that it must taste like
that very morning, in what complex way crops do.

And when the bear-locusts eat them,
what they would say
if they bled pans of gold to romance their amber,
if only then
would they be jubilant
if only on their death beds!

"Don't admire the fields," says Agricoltore.
Why?
"Because they like--they don't change."

I gave him the plate that I made--the clay that I
Smoothed wrong.
As the artist, I fired it like a master,
Painted it like a saint--but I got it wrong.
My biggest fan said
He could faint.
How disappointed was he--my type-writer-love
The white carnations of our wedding melted like snow
In the blasted coffee
In the aghasted coffee
That scorned it's very existence as much as he.
He who, give or take a few,
Blew many kisses my way--even so I fired that
Mischievous plate--and I gave it to him
And I made him disgusting coffee
As well
That day.

You don't know
what's going for you.

This is good.

Give it a chance.

Get your hands out of your pants
There is no need
to feel a little more
at home
Get a **** hatchet for
Pete's sake
open that melon of a face
Watered-down?
Add sugar
"Home isn't what's up"
Even ask the rice cooker
It broke eighteen years ago
so now it just burns everything
the way the mom
burns the dad's bacon
And doesn't it just make your head spin
how meat passes through
without making you
any stronger
than the day before when
the neighbors
got everyone drunk on their
very own cyanide?
But give it a chance
Hell,
any new place is an adventure.
Please.
You don't know
what will happen you're not
a freaking oracle, a job left
for debate
in the same category as
freaking poppies
and whether or not they
should even be flowers.

Smell them.

Fraud.

He
nearly died today
because his 30 second-old love
couldn't stay,
The ruby red
bird winged
Merman of His Dream.

His heart attacked
his very own watered lungs,
The tears
which stopped his heart
like a sneeze.

He prayed, "Please."

The hospital bed Lord didn't reply,  and
He felt the plump nurses were
telling him
lies.

Went to the grave
this past Memorial Day
and saw it was covered
with mud.

With but a dish rag,
maintenance
didn't exactly leave a shine
behind them, walking
away as they massaged
their own aching backs.
Otherwise they could,
I don't know,
massage the backs that
are already broken.

"Don't graveyards have
maintenance-people for that?"

They are humble.
They like not to be known.

Let the world know that poetry
is great.
There is passion in its rough, gilded grooves
(I've seen it all)
Dance shoes under
(I've tried them on)
And overall, wicked smiles
(they have shown on my face).

I've read the Alice blue tears of a grown man
lined up like a tree so that
each line is a branch.
I've read all the things
that you think don't love each other,
but they simply do.
Poetry loves you--people and poems are
just the perfect
dance partners.
I've seen it all--

I've seen that crazy look
on a poet's face.
It is the best form of every thing
which is only tangible

through a poem.

Blossoms look better in the rain;
reaching into black mist and white wind,
singing like a deaf woman

I'll marry any man who agrees

I love these lines
I hate their stops
I love these words
I hate their last letters,
pirouetting like French kisses

They say, "So now it's done. Goodnight,
I love you.
Break that pencil in half,
now throw it away.
See you next time
The Demon
wants to stay.
You look so neat dressed in jewels
that complete you."

Today
my head is a garden
and I am keeping the flowers
from rotting, the peppers,
pears, peaches, and co.
from ripening.
And though I wish I could
clip these producers
the way a China Doll
clips her nails
I vow not to do so
wholeheartedly,
For soon these musings will
choose to die.

By lunch
the weeds will come up.
And they will have work to do
they will have work--
We have work to do!
The green lush fills me
too full,
Whatever words they make
I can't even tell,
but at least I have enough
Common Sense
not to shoot [them out of]
myself.

Lover,
Huntsman,

Burn a dove's heart in your--
campfire.
Serve it to me
in a saucer of tea.
"May your smiles fade to red
& green, sire."
The page will say.
In reply.
And like that our love will die

He writes poems
the way he chooses what to wear in the morning
He does these two things like a child
learning Spanish, and he loves the language
very much, so why does it matter?
He feels at home
because Summer is eternal, being
the onions he hides under his floorboards
under his bed
He says, "They smell like shastas."

I know of a girl who dreads the New Year
Because it steals her away
from poodle-skirts and telephones
And all that is long gone
Drags her across the floor by her ankles
while she sobs
as though she'd known the era's
dead.

Our winter is brown grass
like the great plains,
the band with ice cold wind
for a lead singer

Our winter is a
barren land of detail,
Unlike the typical purity
of yours.

Formulas? What formulas?
My angles are calculated
by kisses.

How many sides?
I have enough
to keep me entertained for a thousand years.
As for area, I don't have much

Because my insides drove off
into sunny blizzards
a long time ago.

I am missing a base
There's a gaping whole somewhere

Its perfection, in comparison to me,
releases the gilded blood
which melts my myriad of eyes,
those limestone rocks
I lean on whenever my shape is uneven,
the angles getting smaller

At a different pace each.
Lips & hugs are not always enough
to keep them standing;
When they
collapse, you are hardly forgiven.

Warm water turned cold

by winter's flair, And the memory

is still there

folding like its own waves. Hear blood rushing in your ear,

the memory speaks

to you through conch shell. Its sussurus

sounds blue, warm black,

hues of a silvery orange, gold green. And when you step

in the water you think of

the way it had reflected your gleeful posture. The way everyone

advanced on the

translucent blue with texture like crumpled paper. When ice

did not threaten your toes

but instead gave all limbs flight. All this

undefinable like jazz...

I tend to

Hope something can be done

as if nothing will ever be done

Wishing

I could've gotten something done

as if I've hibernated for the 15th year in a row.

I'm wishing

Wishing

Wishing

I would just die

as if believing that I may as well.

Expertly deprived of sleep,
the King slithers across a
safehouse living room, robes
tracing a circle.
His salutations are dead.
His peasants come apart from him.
They don't
understand, but they like to think
They do.
He is “working toward
Improving the lifestyle of many, and to
give the people the privilege of...”
Yet he is not,
But let us pay loyalty for his prize,
For it's a red apple
which pushes him forth on the blood-red Carpet
of Vain—he takes a bite,
and this is how he must live his life
In order to live.

The city is his sanctuary
A place to abscond
When he starts to wonder, “Does the
world deserve
to have my conscious body, the way
that they do?”
The King whispers this lamentably.

It's taken me three years to grow.

It will take me three years to grow more.

I look to both with despair

and dried, thorny branches.

Save me.



Coat me in chocolate and sell me for a price

unlike most products,

Sell me to my soul so that she may taste

What I've become

(Or what I will be,

I do not know which.)



And let her know that the juice of this bruise-purple thing

was hatched from the eggs of

Hot

Blood,

burning as limes do.

Tell my soul to ready her buds for a special meeting.



Teach her to chew fire just so

when the two of us collide, soul and berry,

she won't burn to death

Starting at the gums. Ending with the heart.



We'll meet, finally, in three years long as a field,

at a warehouse store.

We'll come together on the way home.