I live in strange cities and talk with strangers
About things dear to me
I walk on alien paths and eat foreign food
And remember
I paint **** women, their hips large
Dark hair and full *******
And I know
We all seek perfection, not knowing
We are already perfect
I sing, my notes rise and fall endlessly
Like a tireless swallow in the sky
And I praise
Hosanna in the highest
And as the dust motes dance in the wintry sun
In my wooden church, I am transported
To singing with Irish nuns
My skin browner, in a country of heat and dust
A country of mangoes and temples
Of saffron and silks
And as I don my jeans
Memories of my mother’s swishing silks
Take me home
But I live in strange cities and talk with strangers
And home is just another four letter word

Do you feel your hands, tight----------
... Around my neck?
Do you see my face,
the same shade of purple
... To go with the walls.
!!! YOU SAID YOU'D PAINT ME !!!
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So,
Why is black and blue
... The only color, in your life?
And I still don't know you--------
Know me?
... And I could NEVER
write about you.
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Do you hear yourself, how---
How can you paint me?
Do you see your face?
My face, the same face.
Staring back at you...

The same blue eyes,
And a different mirror.

To the wonders yet for me to discover…
Come hit me so that I’m bruised.
Or better yet, leave a permanent mark. One that I’ll watch while holding a cup of coffee on a bitter frost winter day.
Sting my face with shock while my chapped lips whimper.
Beg me to listen when you come in a different form; whether the ruffling leaves or whispers in the wind.
Come on, be my friend that will align me  even when I am severed in half with fear.
Show me that I need to learn.

Every Window Opening,
Is a Portrait
of the Divine Mother.

Invocation flowed by divination on the splat of paints,
As the hand move eradically, painting blurr dramatically!
Compelled by the vocal expression, with reinforced connotation.
Singing with such provocative verbalism with moving utterance!
With drop of paint splash of articulation, with inner confession!
Fingers post, flow with curves like storm erupting with Passion!
He can't stop, he will not stop, as ye move relentlessly like erratic feline.
Go forth with his art like a roar of thunder shaking root and foundation!
As he gasps and collapses, to his final demise with the finale!

your hair is chestnut brown
your feet,    soft
pointed upon the other
oblivious to the other sixteen pairs
sat   flat upon the ground.

your eyes are wide
through habit of being surprised,
or showing an interest,    where
sixteen foreheads  crease and look down.

your pen dances  across the ruled lines of your page.
though time passes  in this taxing classroom
you don’t age.

  
dumb words
try jealously to tie down that which
extends beyond their square brackets.
when communication is as  broken  as it has ever been,
how can I hope to express to you what I  see?

so I know that these words are in vain.
I know that I have failed
to frame your fire in a portrait
that honestly reflects you.
and so I apologise,  for this ode aborted
but, anything else  would be untrue.

If I ever had the chance to sketch a portrait,
I'd sketch a portrait of you,
Your beady grey eyes,
Your jawline,
So definite,
Your smile,
Your hair,
So surreal and breath taking.
You are perfection,
And the  best piece of art I could ever draw.

He’s a social chameleon.
He is whoever you want
Whenever you want it
And he’s glad to flaunt it.
He serves me Doctor Pepper
In a crystal champagne flute
And whistles heavy metal
In a double-knit pantsuit
Since he dresses from yard sales
In cheap period clothes
Everybody seems to know him
Wherever he goes.

But, they don’t know his name
Only his audacious style
That either runs people off
Or makes them smile.
He only cares for opinions
That make him happy inside
And assumes any criticism
Is because somebody lied.
He dances like a club kid
But is well into middle age.
He knows all the song lyrics
That are the current rage.

He makes his money painting
HIs canvases of chaos
Covered with a thousand splashes
Of house paint in gloss.
He says they are like music
Each color has a separate tone
And if you can’t enjoy his art
Then leave him the hell alone.
He’s skinny, but delicate
With the bone structure of gods
You’ll not have seen his type before
I will lay you bookable odds.

His one solid weakness
And everybody knows
Is that he sings all the time
And everywhere he goes.
That would be quite lovely
But he can’t carry a tune.
So he looks like an old photo
And makes noises like a loon.

Green tea equations and cigarettes and
a distinct lack of food and
dark night lovely lonely walks and
maybe tomorrow
she will wake in a life
where she can love all parts of herself.

Can you feel that?
What a wondrous sensation.
She takes cold hands and
questions and buries them
in that empty stomach that
sings loudest when she fails
at sleeping. This girl with worn patches
and an overwhelming sense of
irony; there's too much to her
but still she is not enough.