Today you say,
"the bottles half empty."
Simply not because you drunk half a wine bottle
But your life isn't the perfect model
You use to stand tall,
But your leaves begin to say "so long"
As if it was fall,
Yet it is spring,
And your life is dissipate
Oh though it seems

For Your life is the definition of a Dimond ring,
You care about money, and the clothes,
Not about the happiness life brings,
In Your mind its seemingly,
money, fame, and fortune

showing lack of endorsement,
It's been "me, myself and I"
We all look at you and sigh
For negative is your only thought,
In your life,
negative is the only thing you got
If you switched around the bottle is half empty,
To the bottles have full,
Life would be much more to endure

Buddha belly, rabbit’s foot,
how much luck can you get
                                                    from touching the dead?

(Maybe that’s the reason behind Jeffrey Dahmer’s slaughtering of
                                                                ­                         seventeen men;
maybe that’s the reason why we break wishbones—
to remind ourselves that this bone is dead
                                            these hands are alive
                                            do something with them.)

In some cultures, it is socially acceptable to
                             eat your child’s placenta—
there is good fortune in it, power in it.

(I wonder if this is the reason why cannibals eat their victims.)

Number seven.  Cross on the wall.
         I wish you good luck.

If you read this you're out of luck (Loser)

In this world,
Sawn always appears after the darkness of the night.
Misfortune halved.
Fortune and misfortune are intertwined
They are all part of the scheme of things.

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SoHo seems nice this time
of year; although I am terrified of going
anywhere near a city that holds you in its hands and above me, too high
to me, you are New York. but when I walk down Central Park West my shadow clings to my shins
you scrape my skin with your breath and I feel hot July air that is trapped between your buildings – these subways are too stifling
I will let you lift up my skirt like he did, but only because I know that it’ll rain heavily the Chelsea Pier after.

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Churchill
I think my eyes are permanently squinted; agonizing over the shape of your eyes and how they
relate to mine – even in the light you’re missing pieces, your rocks are crumbling away, you are sand – your grains hold words –
unmentionable, special, temptress, miss, you, nothing, work, in my dreams, diffuse, instantly, affection, with, you, stuck, darling, attention, far, vivid, feather, waking, wasted, sweet dreams, worth, wish, awake
I always feel my conscious wrap her delicate hands firmly around my throat and pour salt water into my eyes when you are in front of a screen, in front of me – I think maybe I should cut pieces of me
could I mail them to New York? to SoHo? you can curl up with them in bed and try to find the grooves where you fit in, or just fry me on the grill. Ideally, you should consume me so that I may never leave. only if –

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I’ve been pinching and piercing my skin to prevent me from crying more often than
I sleep. I know it’s morbid and dramatic but being slaughtered by tears is not how I want
to spend my Saturday night. I’d rather see Basquiat on a wall or short films screened while I watch you instead. I would walk until my legs gave out and
trace one single finger along your spine. And here I am, grasping my skin between my fingers and pinching, squeezing you out – I can just scrape the excess off after you’re gone
tomorrow I plan on eating as many seeds as I can to grow flowers in my throat and have them sprout past my eyes so all I see are petals. They’ve been missing for a while. The weeds still cover
my stomach. If only when I thought of you I thought of flowers. Most of the time I see a hand reaching through the thickest fog. As I reach for you, all I hear are 35 words that cover me.

Her hair was like a sunset,
Dark red sand that faded
into the golden silk of sunlight.
The wind passed her cheek bones
to the nape of her neck,
touching blush skin through her
blouse.
Her eyes were hazel with specks of
sunflowers as she walked through
the night.
And like the night she walked,
With love at her side and wrath in her hands.
Her lips were smoke-- a cigar with
flames of pure madness.
A madness that comes then dances
around you in a wild blaze of
anthropometry.
Testing your empty soul and filling you
with hope,
Then dousing your feet with charcoal.
You begin to walk with her,
leaving your mark on the land.
Your charcoal feet.
Her hands of wrath.
Your empty soul,
and her sunflower eyes.

When I was little
I used to pretend I was a fortune teller
Looking through the glass orb
Pretending I could see my future
My life as I always wanted it to be.

Now I don't need anything like that
I like the idea of not knowing what I want next,
Although, I'm forever seeing you within all I perceive
No need to imagine how I want life to be
When I'm content with the present.

Sing in the greyness, the darkness.
Twine it round your fingers
round the staff lines
you carved into your legs.
Black white and red
what have we anymore?
Dame Misfortune Madam
of whorish time,
who waits for no man.
Which came first?
See who lit the cigarette last,
see, he puts his trousers on
one at a time.
Eternity in a nutshell,
the universe in an eggshell,
and we brewed beer in them
to get rid of the changeling thoughts,
though mother heated the shovel
iron hot, it glowed
black white and red.
Flicker, dance-- does it live?
Do we live?
Even when we can see the end?
Blindfolded fortune, justice,
says no,
twisting ribbons round her fingers
black, white and red.

Woodpecker reminds  .  .  .
Aches are long in last season,
  .  .  .  Knocking on old tree.