There is thunder in my ******
from my ******, falls her monthly rain –

I like being a girl, but I hate being a woman.  
This is what all of us say:
give me estrogen but not too much.
give me the babies but don’t make it hurt.

And all their milk is store-bought.

                                       April 25th, 2006.
             Judgment day, in white pants
I give orange pulp to everyone –
the Sixteenth Century has me by the ovaries.

Our date in the bathroom was the best
you, in the tub, and me bending over to staple my hair in a bun.
We were both naked but neither of us looked good
just beautiful and imperfect, soggy like flowers after rain
until I used the dryer that works in a crescendo
belly up, then down, cool sprays
hot as chocolate under a pair of wintertime mittens.
Now I can laugh, remembering the best part: as soon as I finished
and seemed as unspoiled as a girl with fresh afterglow can,
my locks slicked back by your sweat and sink-water,
you asked me to take a shower with you. Wet again and
feeling so romantic as I step on the fur you shed
then the stomach of where your bare bottom had rested.
Remembering our best date
how your ***** looked like a cat’s tail wagging against my skin
how you picked out what ******* I should wear next
how I dropped your belongings in my underwear drawer
(for me to find a month later, Valentine’s Day)
and still pure, I mopped the puddles with our towel afterward.

A decade of trains that lost track
have just turned up in my esophagus,
they are all bile as I am all hands.

This is why I was never frightened by ghosts
and sea specters:

they have been inside of me
the whole time.  

Sometimes, hot coal would hit my cuticles,
I could see the steam.
I could feel something like wheels
spinning a web on my nail-beds;
something sat in me like I were a flowerpot.

All that remained were the sticks
of my skin, blood bubbling from below.

But they have been there
the whole time.
I have been a ship in a bottle,
I have been a conductor without knowing.

Fever outlined my spine with its fingers
and I felt I was being kicked by
a fetus.

I was a hallway for phantoms
that believed they still have their limbs
and if not, quills
or a fish with gills and a fin
or locomotive. Mechanical movement still.

How could I not realize
they were inside of me the whole time,

soaking up the nutrition from my throat
shifting the razor while I shave?
Thousands of train-ghosts
crawled from me by an engine of *****.

Not one knows where they are.

Stitches ov pain and ......lines to hell


1.
(Come, Yves...please, let's go....he's a megalo )
(Don't worry, it's ok...soon)

Jacques pulls us another line
Makes criss-cross stitches on Lisa's eye
While she screams atop her lungs
Yet invites us to share  ......that line.

Yves eyes it while I dress
Jacques tries to stop me, I ignore
I put on this, I put on that
While he stares, moody and Yves is ******.

(Yves, PLEASE let's go, I don't feel right)
(Relax, man....we will go soon...we got us a line...)


2.
Poor Lisa tries to sneak out, but trips and falls
Not escaping Jacques' eye
He glints and rises, while Yves apprises
We see not her fate but hear her screams.

I think I've had more than enough
What'll happen when he returns?
Jacques is demented, our moves'll be cemented
If we accept this one line...to hell!

(Yves, please....something's not right....)
(Heeeey...?? Come sssit, mannnn.....aaahhhh...)

I care not for that line.....

[slipping in and out, in and out.....so many passages here, like a maze in a   forest.....a headless run, this mare.......to seek me out, seek me out......try to hide behind the shadows in the walls and climb into the ghosts of battered souls....find little respite ......]


3.
:(After raids, Yves' body is found.....in a closet next day....and......
A gruesome ending for.....a line):

Stitches ov pain and lines...to hell.

(Pourquoi t'as pas ecoute, mon cher......)



4.
You stayed behind, while I fled on blind eye
Why couldn't you just resist that one last line?
The one that caused us all so much pain
That one, ****** line....straight to hell!



S T, 07 April 2013

A big "dry clean only" coat, swimming straight in the mud.
And a beautiful white dress adorned with a merlot colored stain in my lap.
And long, dark, Italian-bred hair drenched in color-changing chemicals.
And an ivory complexion smeared with gray cigarette smoke.
And a handful of teeth painted yellow.
And a pair of strong hands that I never bother to utilize.
And a couple of shoulders carrying too much of the load.
And my poor, poor heart that took the blow for the risks I insisted on taking.
Maybe if I was a little better at taking care of my things,
My things would start taking care of me.

The other day, I found myself
Somewhere between 13 paces
And thirteen minutes.
I was a one-step trip on my laces,
And by 14 minutes,
I was alone again.

When the
moon hugs your
skin tonight

a little part of
me will ache
for you