I got them broken down, whiskey blood, drank too much ****** beer and didn't sleep enough, tumbleweave, cigarette ****, city wide blues.

Green envy flame, Titania reigns
Sweat/glisten, some men can't listen
Make up less face, love me the same way
Hard to leave this place
But new beginnings written
All over my eager face.

Extension of yourself,
My spirit--soul reaching, like inked limbs
Of tomorrow, crescent moon
Consumed in the artistry of every moment
Like my picture 142 times
Gotta wear overalls, crop top
Reach for the back audience members

Everyone is losing a nickel and dime
All the time.

Padding and sheets on the floor
"Talk about bohemian dream livin"
I jest in my nest of what has been
My nurture, vulnerability, intimacy.

We all comment and slosh
Our glasses embedded with whiskey
"Its so embedded"
Long Eyelashes said, as muscles and new dreams
Look sweeter, but lets kiss on Friday night
As I fly away from the ultimate Bohemian
Who told me in my cocoon:
"You talk too much."

Why do men say such things?
Is it that hard to listen?
To fill others with sincerity, joy
I don't know.

That extension of love
My mind wheeling around
Geography, topography, calculous
But in essences of green, red, purple
My keypad does not allow
Quick, swift fingers to say to past violence
"Wish you well."

Remember how I use to send you poems of the day?
Me neither.
But I can, through that lie to myself
Outline what I thought we were
Like an ink gun exploding
Just GO, girl

Because my wishing, my kissing
I flutter like a sea of dragons
For those who join the ride,
Next to me.

The Windy City.
Sometimes I worry heavily
About popularity.
But I took my time walking the city street
Tonight.
I stopped in front of the grave site
Where freedom was won for us
Through ****** wounds and all the tunes
Of men who fought so valiantly
To just tell women: "You talk too much."
?????
????
??

Lets fight the good fight
Lets replace our swords with sharpness of wit
Lets put down our guns and aim generosity, instead
Lets let go of the mallet
The grenade
The pitchfork
The joust
Wouldn't you rather save, expel
Your energy for a peaceful humanity
Happiness rings at its doorbell.

Wedding veil, do we run out of things
To discuss?
Past the age of huge mistake, some say
Wait until you are at least 30
While the South croons and cranes
Patriarchy.

Who is to hammer down their gavel
Of how to map out your life
Who needs an exact map?
Lets sleep on the floor
Ink our bodies to look like paintings
Kiss lips of those we love
Trust that success, happiness
Peace--
Is no where to be found
In weaponry.

Everything is numbers,
all these six-six-sixes and sevens
And our writing patterns just keep happening in elevens
Seven billion people stand alone on this earth
But none of us matter, we're all a dearth

And a two stands right before a comma
And it's followed by a four and then two fives
And that number makes up the amount of miles I have to drive
In order for me to still remain alive
These numbers make up all the reasons I thrive

Two people stand on one planet
Taking the things that they both hold for granted
Ten trillion stars get entrapped in their eyes
As they both stare at once to the dark, midnight skies

Twenty eight teeth smile falsely, for the flash
As the truth breaks into four perfect piles of ash
Each one holds a story, too graphic to tell
The secrets are kept in a giant, cracked bell

They warn us that fever travels in the air,
so women pull the shutters closed and keep
children out of the empty, heady streets.
Grandpa tries to assure me we are safe,
that yellow fever will stop when the ports
close. He never speaks of how the victims suffer,
shuts the curtains against my anxious eyes
as the bodies are removed, but rumors catch
the breezes, too.

Vomiting, bleeding from the nose and mouth,
the eyes yellow, and then victims reach out
in a last fit of delirium, demanding forgiveness
from God’s wrath as He turns them the sallow
shade of the September sun. This is the color
of a body when salvation fractures
from the depths of their souls.

Each day, the count of the dead rises.
My cousin, the milkman, a widow down the block—
all pass within hours. The Quakers deem
this the Almighty’s will, his “rod.” Physicians
bleed the sick, and I think not to rid them of disease,
but to account for sin.

We all hope for frost. I know Grandpa will not leave
the city, but I do not imagine his eyes yellowing,
for pride keeps them clear of exhaustion
and glaze from inviting liquor or laudanum.

My whole body sweats from dreams
of corpses the color of tobacco-stained teeth,
blood pouring from eyes like tears, each one dropping
to the ground. I wake up, dizzy in smeared-red sheets,
my nightgown smelling like a mausoleum, but I do not
call for help because I’ve been waiting to look
into the face of God, to see my yellowed city’s reflection.

Headphones on so tight
Shield yourself from the noise and coughs of others
How dare I be afraid of the very thing I seek to help?
She approached me in the street
Intoxicated, drugged up, my mind always
Creating drama.
Creating drama.
Looking around, witnesses?

I trust no one.
She asked me for directions, her whiskey mouth
Slurring and purring
It brought a tear to my eye
That I fear what I seek to change.

And everyone fears the police
I can feel us as an entity tighten and tense
Black uniform and tools on the side
Blue and red lights
No one trusts the police

How can any of us feel safe?
A missed phone call
A moment of intense vulnerability
Tears from a friend for not hearing from him or him
And I get it, I get it.

No one trusts the police.
As the day becomes darker
Don't gild the lily
An acting teacher use to say to me
Bodies all meet in a room
Lets drink wine, change the world
I'll try not to look at my stupid ******* phone.

The daunting darkness tries to bring out
The party monster
Won't you call me back?
The snowy cold brings it out
It brings it out

I hope she found where she was trying to go--okay
And was well and safe
You love my self awareness, you exclaim
I reread over piles and miles
Of my poetic past and antics
Trying to decipher who that was then.

Blue shirt, black pants
Black cap and grim expression
Sirens go on and off in the distance
There was a time I would see this and feel comforted
But how can we live in a world where we fear
What must protect us?

Around the eighties the Mumers New Year Parade in Philly
lost a bit of its tradition. It originally was made for
the average working family. But around this period
people were charged to watch them do their famous strut
and extra displays of course only at City Hall.
And so let us begin my poetic story...


Standin' among the crowd,
watchin' blue police-van-bleeders
being escorted; wearin' city-steel-wrist-braclets

And now struttin' my way,
psychopathic eclipsers
of physical freedom
seekin' potential comatose heads
to tap

And squads of finger thrusters
of back pockets for targets,
dart in and out of crowds,
quickly countin' their *****
in dark unseen places

Feet freeze
as sounds travel,
" Oh dem golden slippers"
soundin' like cheap tin toy Kazoos
and toy glockenspiels

The wind kisses
my **** end blue
as a flyin' Budweiser
kisses my right foot wet

Man made pop art
reflects the times
at the times
at Broad and Spruce
of cigarette butts,
chocolate wrappers,
and crushed beer cans
climaxin' montage
of the mountain- ****** eighties

Boozers and blue
sweet puffers
wearin' smiles
outside
and within most inner thoughts
puff-buffed away from some reality
step in cadence to their
own music within themselves

And wailin' children
havin'
more sense
than adults
become early sacrifices
to the fruit of Bacchus

The marching high strutters of "Big Bird",
they strain and struggle under the weight
of heavy hernia suits;
with feathers and sparklers,
their instruments wrestle as steamy air puffs shoot forward
from their nostrils
like  red-devil-painted-dragon faces
in the bitter cold air
warmly protected by their attire and *****,
they stop seemingly for eternity,
in the suspended purgatorial
halts
one after another,
only waitin'
for the grandstand reserved section
around City Hall
Yet we wait and pray together
that perhaps like in the older days
we will get a sneak of
a nostalgic, spontaneous,
free dance-strut
that never comes

Attached, yet unattached
and cryin' inside;
always on guard
for flyin' and drunkin' fists
or flyin' articles
of all sizes
Seein'  through
the facades of we must act
like ha! ha! ha!
I cry inwardly
with anger
doin' the rat-tat-tat
of no more nonsense
of my inner-self
Strivin' and movin' to flee Freddie Kruger's bladed fingers
I sting all over,
my teeth clinch with anger,
darkness intensified
The crowd becomes uglier,
blackness
engulfs
black souls
Vehement, crazy,
hordes and hordes of frustration bellows
outward
The call of Nietzche,
The ouch under my skin

This damnable real parade
not shown in Liberace-livin'-Color

No commercial breaks of luxury cars
that drive livin' manikins
Livin' manikins that wear dial under their arms
while smilin' the brand of Crest toothpaste
but instead,
a street drunk with
broken ugly teeth
as he begs for quarters
and blows his odorous breath
beyond description

And City Hall payin'-grandstanders
with tv cameras
bein' in the spirit of "Disneyland"
presents
the overly organized narcissistic prostituted
elegance of forever, floatin', bouncy,
dancy, prancy,
skippin' to the tune
of  mom's Apple pie,
a small slice of my reality

And the applaudin' money makin'
TV grandstanders
of goody goody
look mom I can do the swan dance
while holdin' multiple
colored sparklers
wrapped in feathers
But why must I
see through the eyes of a Godless Nietzsche,
**** it!!