let's go back to basics
i'll punch you in the face
i'll rip out your hair and eyes and teeth and use them as jewelry around my sleeve
oh how much i love you! every part of yourself you've given me! your brown eyes and bleached teeth - you make me look so chic!
i don't care that your veins and enamel and sticky hair styling products are ruining all my long-sleeved clothes
i'd rather wear you now and save my expensive jewelry for more formal and important events -

                                                              ­                                                                 ­      my heart's made of gold

oblong tracks
chasm the peered envelope,
liquid marigold
awakens feuders
preserved in similes.

All this rice in my bed is interfering with my sleep
But I didn't know there was a hole in my head
Please don't ask me about all the snails I keep
Some things are better left unsaid

All the rabbits in the cupboard are pouring out,
Three by two,
As the spiders dance down the shutters
They pixilate the sun's new gloom

So I wipe the sadness off my mattress,
and start anew
Simply free and sweetly tactless,
happiness grew

Absence.
Lack thereof.
Without.
Lost.
Forgotten.

Absence.
An empty bed.
Lonely hearts club.
A party of one.
Quiet house.
Not even a stir.
Miles cracking as he spins and spins
Rain drop drops down the windows,
down walls
down me.

Absence.
Not good enough to be remembered.
Boring, lackluster, too easily surpassed.
A hole in the heart,
Weakness is showing emotion.
Blank face.
Death in Life.
EXILE.

Absence.
Tardiness.
A minute too late.
Detention.
No, absence.
Not here at all
was never really here
was never ever here.

Absence.
Seeing what is wanted
Not what is had.
What is had
is absence.
A lack thereof.
Nothing really at all.

Fields are white for harvest
with souls rotting on the vines;
graft them into the Kingdom now,
while there is still time.

Fullness of Life's abundance is available,
when connected to the True Vine;
but how to reach others when -
Christians don't heed the warning signs?

Workers may not be plentiful,
yet, faithful ones always find the fruit;
productive lives are highly visible
from employing Principles most astute.

Examples of Victorious Living serves
as the spiritual scythe for Human reaping;
for people won't be harvested when...
One can't insure one's own safekeeping.



Author Note:

Learn more about me and my poetry at:
http://www.squidoo.com/book-isbn-1419650513/

Days like this
Cannot get any worse
I've lost her at arms length
I've lost her completely.

I've had my head in the clouds
Too **** long.
To figure out
What I have done.

Days like this
Cannot get any worse.
Because every little thing

Reminds me of Her.

The Blue Falcon, cross the spire,
Waits in the gables of the white
House.  Wounded in youth by crush
Of air, spent, a wisp perched
In the aerie dark with a view of mountains
Blue as ice under glacier.  The wooden
Church from the other side clutches
The sky but the Falcon blue is lost
In a tuft of cloud that bobs but never
Kills.  On this strike he is sheathed in stealth
The dull talons slip as they dry
In the tented air, the songbirds at play
In the high-ground underneath warble
And chide but the Falcon cannot hear
The Falcon near.  His heart is soft
And muted in the breast, his ears
Are dumb to their tickling-songs.  

Before the Falcons time, over
The tilling fields, dropped his world
In the spoils where splendour burst in green,
Rain meant the feathers ran and the woods,
A banquet of game, were bounty's breach
Fording blue currents he was
A fisher in the sun, but the sun
Sank in his drowning sky no store
From plateau to quarry the drought of days
Moved a castle felled in the dancing
Dust, his wings broke in the shuttered
Eye of the sun and etched his form
Into grey silhouette.  

Now, the Blue Falcon, jeered
In the branches of the rooted air
Above the yellowed grass, under the pines
And a great blue mountain, stirs a Druid
Shape, vaporous, in the cauldron
Of the attic in the white house
A throw of stones crossways from
The sacred yews of the steeple spire.

I have done it again.
One year in every ten
I manage it----

A sort of walking miracle, my skin
Bright as a **** lampshade,
My right foot

A paperweight,
My face a featureless, fine
Jew linen.

Peel off the napkin
0 my enemy.
Do I terrify?----

The nose, the eye pits, the full set of teeth?
The sour breath
Will vanish in a day.

Soon, soon the flesh
The grave cave ate will be
At home on me

And I a smiling woman.
I am only thirty.
And like the cat I have nine times to die.

This is Number Three.
What a trash
To annihilate each decade.

What a million filaments.
The peanut-crunching crowd
Shoves in to see

Them unwrap me hand and foot
The big strip tease.
Gentlemen, ladies

These are my hands
My knees.
I may be skin and bone,

Nevertheless, I am the same, identical woman.
The first time it happened I was ten.
It was an accident.

The second time I meant
To last it out and not come back at all.
I rocked shut

As a seashell.
They had to call and call
And pick the worms off me like sticky pearls.

Dying
Is an art, like everything else,
I do it exceptionally well.

I do it so it feels like hell.
I do it so it feels real.
I guess you could say I've a call.

It's easy enough to do it in a cell.
It's easy enough to do it and stay put.
It's the theatrical

Comeback in broad day
To the same place, the same face, the same brute
Amused shout:

'A miracle!'
That knocks me out.
There is a charge

For the eyeing of my scars, there is a charge
For the hearing of my heart----
It really goes.

And there is a charge, a very large charge
For a word or a touch
Or a bit of blood

Or a piece of my hair or my clothes.
So, so, Herr Doktor.
So, Herr Enemy.

I am your opus,
I am your valuable,
The pure gold baby

That melts to a shriek.
I turn and burn.
Do not think I underestimate your great concern.

Ash, ash ---
You poke and stir.
Flesh, bone, there is nothing there----

A cake of soap,
A wedding ring,
A gold filling.

Herr God, Herr Lucifer
Beware
Beware.

Out of the ash
I rise with my red hair
And I eat men like air.

6:45
the silence is deafening...
It hurts my ears...
Not the chirp of a bird
or a single uttered word
have quelmed my fears
i long for the amorous growl
and i wish the lonely howl
would entertain my head...
the blankness is blinding
theres no colors for finding
what the hell are colors?
I vaguely remember, like the others
when i used to see, i remember not much
but i remember the beasties, like foxes and such
prancing before my eyes in seductive dance
and they played my eyes into a wondrous trance.
i let their paws set to wander
let their smiles grow fonder
and dizzy my eyes until i came
to and they were gone. The blankness is the same.
What's this?! A sound?!
Has it come?! Have i found?!
I answer the text with a simple "el oh el"
push the send button and say what the hell.
6:46
the silence is deafening...

It’s ten forty-five, he’s still alive
The bus picks her up yet again
Wears a permanent smile and yet all the while
Behind it is years’ worth of pain

In her face once was beauty, there now seems just duty
But really she does it for love
They were always a pair and she’s still always there
Just awaiting the call from above

She goes faithfully, bathing him, giving tea
Reminding him he’s still her man
She hides all her fears despite twenty hard years
Doesn’t think of before it began

Rain or shine she goes to him; his bright light is now dim
She is steadfast, devoted and true
Each day gets the bus with no hint of a fuss
Well, she loves him; it’s what she must do

It’s been more than a day, since she passed our way
An unheard of change in routine
There must be something wrong for an absence so long
But deep down we know what it must mean

It’s ten forty-five, he’s no longer alive
Her grief weighs her down like a stone
He’s always been there, now there’s only despair
And the knowledge that she’s all alone

It’s ten forty-five, she seems barely alive
The bus stops and takes her away
Still devoted and true, what else can she do
As she visits his grave every day