Last night, I dreamed
Of dozens and dozens
of red tulips, so many
that their petals
almost melted
Together, forming a
Raging river, red
Like the Nile, after
The first plague

Their bloom, and beauty
Evoked a frenzy, a wave
Of joy, that nearly drowned
Me

The sun scoffs
at the afternoon rain,
And begins to retreat
Leaving an orange haze
To cloak the dying light

In a state of
contemplation,
I laugh, then cry
attempt to speak
only to remain silent

Words have been lost
to me,
jammed,
forgotten,
isolated,
out of fear for fear
That the cat’s
got my tongue
so tight
Blood is uttered instead
of language

Girl, you write like Kerouac
Yet, you lack that style
That flow, that sounds
Like the written form
Of bebop

You lack an age of change,
Of beatnecks in turtlenecks
Of hipsters, coming up from
The shallow depths of hell
To preach the underground

Tell me, where is your voice?
Who is your audience?
Or do you intend to read
Aloud, to a mirror’s reflection?
To an imaginary crowd?
With cooing sounds of affection?

Hot ****, Vanity strikes
Even the unknown,
All you need is a pen in hand
Some ink on paper, ******
Or half-decent, or merely alright
And you’re a god

Stop.

Think.

That era is dead.

Within the cracks of shadows,
I hide, within every layer, a contorted
Silhouette, crawling so as not to be read

Baby, read aloud to me, popcorn  
I long for school days, innocence
Popcorn passes, the anticipation
So i call on you…

Spotlight acts as a searchlight, killing
On contact, obliterating
Darkness, exposing those beneath
The layers, like me, who’ve laid
Barren, naked, yet unexposed
Read me now, read me without
Verse, without eloquence,
Sophistication or allure
Read me as you see

Red light bounces off your face
Embellishing your features, as I
Stare and contemplate circus rings
Cinema screens, and temptation

Passion, determination, anger, love

I am human, broken; seeking redemption

Interested?

Reward: call below for information

Welcomed with open arms,

Like loved ones, returning

After a long stay away

Spring, rushes through

Every open window

To caress, to kiss



The trials, hardships

Of winter, forgotten

The humidity, misery

Of summer, a myth



The past, the future

Irrevocable



Our wrongdoings, crimes

Moments of ecstasy, pleasure

Moments of tears, screams

Challenges encountered, overcome

Fits of depression, flirtation with the ultimate end



All blended into one…

Then is the future,

The past, yonder



Yet, now, is now

****, coffee burns my tongue

Bitterness turns into flavorless

And through every winced sip

An aging gypsy, with long chin

Hair a twirling, gazes into my soul

Seeking the labyrinths, invading

Yet understanding the vulnerability

Which strikes me numb, in crowds

In moments of rejection, of failure

Which cause my heart to go a racing

My mind a pacing, and my own critique

1 star out of ten, try again next time

Keep a working, forward a moving

Keep a sipping that cup a joe

Listening to strange gypsies

Foretell destinies a-coming

History bakes in the sun,
Ruins from Christ,
Before and after
Lay exposed,
Yet trapped

Behind concrete barriers,
Erected for the safety
Of those outside, but
For the suffocation
Of those behind, the wall
People find ways to smile

And here, I float, in the Dead Sea
Choking on salt, baking in mud
Cleansing myself for purification
Seeking the elimination of imperfection

Yet, in locker rooms, old women undress
And through the folds of sagging *******
The inevitable is reminded

The whole morning consisted
Of examining sketches, of curves
Of soft flesh, of exposed *******
Contorted bodies, figures
Now, long since dead
Captured by the stroke
Of some artist with a fetish

You know, eroticism can taint one’s mind
Distort one’s thoughts, drive one mad?

Or at least, that’s the joke

You *******, you go blind
Your palms go hairy

As a child I heard that joke
Took it so seriously, religiously
That every time I saw a blind person
I thought they deserved it

Like Medusa, my locks

Slither, and hiss, full

Of contemptuous

Snakes



Eagerly awaiting, the poor soul

Who gazes, with eyes of curiosity



To merely be turned to stone

Like Odyssey, like Swiss mercenaries

Men resort to pulling their hair, grinding

Their teeth, and at times, even weeping



Reciting tales, of a place, so foreign

In memory, yet so close at heart



Death by nostalgia, doctors once wrote

A heart may break, after one’s imagination

Becomes ransacked by thoughts

Of what was, before, in settings of familiarity

It kept raining, and the coffee kept pouring
And every time I grabbed out two mugs,
In preparation for nothing, but to satisfy
A childish imagination, to which,
Your cup was filled to the brim,
Black as night, with your left hand
Balancing a book, as you sipped
With your right, and in-between
Page turns, we’d grin at each other
On that unusually warm winter day