a chest that's empty
yet filled with lead

a mind torn so clearly
between the living and dead

the hair on my arms
standing straight in defense

of the words i was not able
to protect against

i spent years pretending
to feel nothing at all

until your eyes met mine
and i began to fall

but here i am pretending
to feel nothing at all

as once again i am reminded
that what comes must also go

Swimming the English Channel,
struggling to make it to Calais,
I swam into Laura halfway across.
My body oiled for warmth,
black rubber cap on my head,
eyes hidden behind goggles,
I was exhausted, ready to drown,
when I saw her coming toward me,
bobbing up and down between waves,
effortlessly doing a breaststroke,
heading for Dover.  Treading water
I asked in French if she spoke English,
and she said, "Yes, I'm an American."
I said, "Hey, me too," then asked her out for coffee.

send me a breeze, baby blue
maybe i'll swim on that love, to
her speckle-dust cobwebs
fingerstemmed
in her skin
tinting my feathered heart
with her mosaic smile,
shards of a past she screams,
"stay a while,


baby blue"
long enough to hold her frozen hands,
kicking at the ashes
sift.
sift through
breaststroke through the debri


i caught your smile,
and fed it to,
the holes in her heart
wearing her
in
out
in & out.

Lying just under syrup-film surface
St Vitus’ dance, pushing against ductile bonds
back-flips and breaststroke.

I, with my rolled up Mirror, swatted
surprised eyes followed the arc and    plop!
That lemonade is useless now.

What did it think as it drew its last?
Enjoy the tang?  Panic?
Does it realise?

Will it feel the bubbles push past?
It could grab one, **** the air.
I might dip my finger, crush or flick.

Gran and Granddad chatter drowned,
roast lamb, pipe and sunshine.
I twist the glass to get a better view.

The twitch slower, body fizz-jiving
will it sink to the lemonade-bed,
limp and cheerless?


I could stop this, the thought pushed aside by fascination.
Minutes tick past, chimes cut with miscounted accuracy.
I realise the last witness feels sad.

notes,
when we walk easily and lowly
on an avenue, with a camera, with two hearts
we see and we have seen it
    we breaststroke through a night so
    dark and slovenly as to turn a sunrise purple
    to red, ashamed

books,
when we love properly
when we speak slowly to better hear
the dripping of a warm and raining noon
    there was nowhere left to go for us
    coolly dryly, bookish we sat
    and to a boyish morning, hurtled

will we sit again, as we walk
will we again open those books and laugh

I was born with hitchhiker’s thumbs,
so I think you’ve always known I was transient.
You settled down on an island,
stranded us on the Atlantic,
hoping i’d glean meaning from the shore.
While you worked, I perfected my breaststroke.
The “Great Dominican Hope”
was hardly worth the boarding pass
you creased in a sweaty fist
back when Clinton was still president
and Old Glory still felt like a safety blanket.
You burned a prayer candle for every night I didn’t call,
ran calloused fingers down rosary beads
in the hopes that you’d see me
in some way other than old photographs.
7 years old in a Communion dress,
that’s how you remember me.
like i’m not 30 miles away but six feet deep,
I looked so grounded in church pews.
You still save me a seat.

we escape to a dark corner so only strangers surround us
i hate to admit i'm a little ashamed
      (i know you have been wanting my curves
            you know i have been weary)

What is that? You look, point, start to read
But i innterrupt your eyes and whisper saul's secrets to you myself

it's all about the delivery you see
or
        maybe i am trying to find a reason to get closer to you

It's my second favorite, I say

What's your first?
I breaststroke back through your canals and reveal Julian's utopian paradise,  peeling back the drapes of the boards that built me
I kiss these memorized words into your ear

You are surprised to hear a ***** poem,
Laced with ***** and ***** that catch you off guard
I watch as the ballad sinks into your shoulders

I can tell you have never been with a girl who gets turned on by poems.
          
Your arms sing higher around my hips
Grips grow tighter
Perhaps this is the first time you have been turned on by a poem.



am i what you expected?

Sitting at the desk where so many white men have sat.
Sitting as the rats pick up their bats, ready to bash.
Throwing trash about to clash all because she didn't win a sash that said she was feminine enough to be liked
But masculine enough to be respected.
She is better than expected.
she connected, Corrected and directed this country in their time of need. And I need her! We Need her!
I want to be Her.
But if I cannot be her at least I would like to see her.
Lips red from where she ****** the competition dry
Arm strong from where she pulled herself out of the grave she was born in.
And when she pulls herself to that podium? That is the new morning.
And while the rats are mourning
The age of American women will be dawning!
She will be Drawn in a glorious light in the temples of women's minds.
And she will not just be kind
But ruthless/\
be soft
And still impenetrable like steel
Not be pretty.
But absolutely gorgeous
And we will call her Diana because a
Ruthless, toothless Amazonian Wonder woman she is.
The president?
Yeah you can call her Madam because no longer is she the biblical white man Adam
And Madam president?
Will be no longer a phantom.
Because just like Christine she only appears real to me.
Madam has a nice ring to I could sing to it
Praise to it.
Bathe to it
And while a phantom she will no longer be
She is an angle of music to me.
And when my daydreams are no longer daydreams
But every woman's ******* become a reality.
I just hope everyone understands she didn't get here for free.
She wasn't dining with the queen at high tea.
She was using the breaststroke to cross the black sea
All to become the barbie you and me need to see.
The strong barbie
The I don't take no **** barbie
No longer coy
No longer submissive
I’ll be a ***** if I have to Barbie.
Unlike the African queen Cleopatra
She will not be bit.
That will not be the end of it.
Madam President
I could get used to it.

There are things to worry
See in a hurry or a blurry
Move or push in a scurry
Yes even thoughts to bury
But a false premise builder
Often strikes match flash light
Whoa oh how bright oh bright
Let shine and blind bewilder

Imbedding their charges against others to come
Looking at the world in black or white smothers to some
Whispering character assassinations
Then twist and turn and speaking bass drum
Punches, scream oh no accept reply
Dive swim down deep pressure diving
Breaststroke splash splash accusation conniving

Slow blow mean demean, all to be sight unseen
Hide hide, what you?
Hey say, are often the hiders themselves
A skew, how shrew, the essence, yes the crux

Full one side story oh there is never
Force grab oh don’t push neither left nor right lever
Oh middle lever free is never to be oh unfree decree

Everyone forever on the mend
Though never even a soft only a hardened bend
Why oh why, why not to me now unfriend?
Try I to comprehend!
I trip tripness darkness spread
So must free flow words here this letterhead
Mind fever drugging underflow
No not no not yes knot oh complete knot tightening blow



Cheers, punch gut to me inner character assassination
My heart covered by trepidation
Fast forward roundabout rewind harsh lamentation
One sided black or white, out of spite and protection might
Middle ground oh of constant unbound
Oh why middle never to be truly found

To the mirror is the appearer
And yes all humanity can be vanity
So seek sanity says *** to kettle
Oh what, is there nothing to settle?



As member of humanity I am
Realize hurt I may have caused
Though not mal-intended
Yes not so intended to those befriended
Though deep down result is same
I neither disclaim my blame nor take crooked aim

There's a party I'd like for you all to attend,
partly- to spill yourself over; it's all in my head
And I'm so in over my head, like the thoughts
of getting to the top, with a sprinkle of fame
A bit of extra money toppings, and not being deserted
once they forget your name

Fill up a couple of balloons with oxygen to speak your dreams,
out of breath by the tenth one; saying things in haste
Everything blows away in the wind,
when you eventually lose all of your breath
I could be a bit depressed, but I'll move on from the feeling,
so anyways  I do digress...

Pour out a line of drinks in that chlorine smell,
compare them to the pools of tears I drowned myself in
I had a stroke of ideas, with the chest to commit to them all,
a bit of breaststroke, and I'm still learning how to swim

There's a couple of snacks and snakes,
one to bite into and to bite back
Have a bit of a hiss after every person you kiss,
tell a sweet lie in between pretty lips
And tell them you had a good time, with a bit
of awkward thanks

Play some music, and tune into your negative emotions,
motivate yourself with someone else's motivating quotes
And to quote, "Just one small positive thought
in the morning can change your whole day.”- Dalai lama
I wonder what thought of quote I have at night,
once it's the end of that day

It's always so loud,
especially it all being a party in my head!

We eagerly await the faint whispers;
an anticipated breath, and mere hint of your desire.
The echoes of passion reverberate in my ears,
as hearts yearn to break free from their confines.
How could I ever forget the way you adorn yourself,
that dress that sends my eyes rolling back in ecstasy,
just at the thought of you behind me.

Beginning with a few words,
I surrender myself to the pleasure of your touch.
My jeans constrict me, a physical reminder
of the intensity building within me.
My eyes, like flickering candles, chase the
sensation of our skin igniting.
The tension in the air becomes palpable, and
my smile retreats into itself as you kneel before me.
A gentle bite, a tantalizing lick, and squeeze
- my pleas become nothing more than fuel for your insatiable
desire to continue.

From the anticipation that hangs heavy in the air,
to tears that well in my eyes, everything becomes drenched
before we even reach the depths of our passion.
I dive in with a breaststroke, my teeth sinking into your chest,
eliciting your favorite reaction.
Our tongues dance, speaking a language only we understand
- the language of love, of desire, of surrender, and French.
As we moisten our lips with a hint of saliva,
my attempts to speak are futile, for words cannot capture
the intensity of our connection.

I refuse to release my grip on you,
for once I have you in my clutches,
nothing can tear me away from your intoxicating presence.
Silence your phone, let the fragrance envelop your neck,
as I search for the sweet nectar that awaits me on the tips of my fingers.

One, two, or perhaps three this time?
The possibilities are endless, as we lose ourselves
in the intoxicating symphony of our desires.