What filth
from such a sweet girl
not sweet
never was
just too lazy to speak  truths
apathy breeds misconceptions
those who care may not share
no, not an innocent doe
I'd hit that 'til the sun comes up
and some
and one
slam dunk in the face of foes
don't suppose
you expected much from the quiet kind of gal,
just a smile now and then
blush at the mention of unmentionables
*****,
I'd make your skin crawl right off
tell some deep dark secrets
thoughts of the perverted
it's all a ****** rodeo
if red is the seductive, the loss of purity
I'm blood on sheets
forming words that should never be strung together
but forever and ever
masquerading as nonthreatening
begging for a chase
to hunt and be challenged
shown the world from the truest source of understanding.

I laid down and closed my eyes.

They open.

Brown blurs of dust and memory sweep past as my mind is slowly centered.

A force pulls and I am walking.

Drifting though corridors of clutter, the scenes are ***** and familiar.

A decrepit house from memories past surrounds me and engulfs me whole.

I turn a corner and see her there.

The swirls of dust somehow do nothing to obscure her certain presence.

It is her.

It is her who I have longed for but could not have.

Drifting lazily but surely, I approach and make conversation.

As the words leave her mouth, suddenly everything is different.

The shadows focus and become definite.

The fog in my mind blots away.

As if a crystal clear presence .

Sweeps away the cobwebs from a dusky corner.

I know what I am.

I am a dream.

A dreaming entity who is merciless and invincible.

Her eyes are clearer than my own imagination could envisage and I know.

She is aware too.

A world of mind at my fingertips, a thrilled flourish runs up my spine and the only thing that occurs to me is.

'Run.'

Come my dearest, we must run.

The dream world is infinite.

But only in size, not in time.

My god I love her.

Grab my hand, we must hurry, must rush, for perhaps if this house grows so too will our essence.

My lungs, as they are only neurons, are free and wild and carry my thoughtful limbs to the reaches of my conscious.

We run and run.

Past the doorways and wallpaper imprinted with illusions and dreams blurring past me, I have never felt happier in my life.

I have the layout of the disorderly house of eclectic architecture.

Imprinted in my mind and I lead her around corners and past dark windows.

Photographic bits of floor and wall find my eyes and I take in every detail of them.

She is behind me and we are laughing and whispering and running.

We have stopped.

I have found a room with no other exits.

One door is slightly ajar but it is a nonthreatening closet with an array of fancy santas nestled within the dust.

I shut the doors.

She is in my arms and we are spinning and laughing and darting about the room much like two gleeful fish in an aquarium.

I fall on an aging and very welcoming couch.

In fits of laughter and take her down with me.

Her arms around my back, there is nothing that needs to exist any longer, not the house, not the memories.

Not the walls not even running.

In this dream it is now, it is here that I only wish to be close to her.

Our faces close the distance.

Our hands roam through the waters of conscious and over each other's skin.

Our.

It is our shared mind and shared dreams.

It is now that our souls are truly connected with each pass of the tongue and each glorified breath.

It is now that the house of memories is being weakened with each passing moment in this new situation.

We are an unstable force.

The dream is crumbling.

The edges of our world are closing in with light and the dust swirls madly.

The harsh physical plane is manifesting.

The cool shadows are melting.

I take in one breath.

And you
are torn apart
from me.

You once told me sarsaparilla
was your favorite word.
I always thought it was a novel choice,
but I suppose I see the appeal of a word
with such delicious lightness.
And a crisp, definite end.
The word does not wander or linger,
but it simply concludes.
A final 'a'.
So many syllables for
a moderate number of letters, really.
They do not stumble over each other
but rather bubble softly,
bumping each other softly,
nonthreatening and soft.
As if just to make sure
the others are still there.
Comforted by what they find
they sink back into their place in line.
Sar-sa-pa-ril-a
The lazy sprawl of a word
that understands the importance
of understatement
and subtle complexity.
The silent letters
promising to keep our secrets safe
locked in with a whisper
only a word like this can offer.

The solicitous Self,
with and in each exchange
of conversation's
     volley of commiserating
                     commissary verbages
words of curbs and gutters,
owns not its guilt
knows not good will
             nor for those whom shatter
in our drowning hours, unstill...


The Self is begging
for your idolatry's bastions,
wants you to find it beautiful
and superior
     above any other

attention and ingestion
gorging and hoarding
     the tid-bit compliments
     the cloud nine glances
succulent smiles / flirtatious lick of lips

the audience pumping up
its hot air ego-balloon
to beach ball widths

     a deadly kind of perdition
     for you, character fool
                    careless and distracted
blase' as a toad on a stoop...

It is a ****

the amorous Self is
     harmless, the beginning seeds
and whimsy / at flowering
in your hands:
              fluff and puff intimations
child-like glee / pleasing / blowing
nonpluss dandelions
nonthreatening
       in ruminations  
       N' stuff...

but like any ****
when it spreads and takes hold
        the real estate of your time and soul
it chokes and feeds
off your serene prosperity
of peace of mind
of identity

a thief of your ideas
     makes your dreams its own

It suffocates all others
behaves with dismissive airs
      like you it becomes
                   you, who has watered
this pest and catered to its musings
      like a sudden sunrise it appears
out of the blue appealing
a dandelion, quaint & demure
                    yet alluring

The ******* that is the selfish
solicitous thorn
knows its own nature
     far too well
hides its hideous
kink so none can warn  
it is a war
      
with Self
the attention *****


Self being compelled
as all else
a parasite to its growth
a virus and its host

what she now only has to give
in return:

assuage
her malingered spell

she breeds in you
     a ghost of once you were
wastrel grime
wasted time
an empty shell

Abhorred.

Careful what the Self
is selling
the solicitudes
of obsessions  
Possession
Suffocation
                     not much else...


No succor for the Self.

Vulnerable, fragile, needing milk
to love the lovable
the strong looking after the weak.
The fire never wanes burns supreme
all consuming all inclusive
love generates regenerates itself.

He's a catch isn't he
young and far from virile
nonthreatening and funny
in an unfunny way
to me,
the textbook *******
a guy that couldn't
do or deal with half of
what I do daily--

and after all my
pleas of love--
the poems I wrote you
the letters I wrote you
bearing my soul--
putting everything on the line--
you still won't look me in the eye
bet you'll look him in the eye
because behind his eyes are nothing
you love that

when you look behind mine,
you see the pain
you inflicted
you see the dreams
unrealized
but mostly you
see the pain
and the guilt seeps
and seeps
I hope

I tried,
out of both spite
and courtesy,
to tell him you'd just lead him on--
wait for him to bear his soul
then get uncomfortable with everything
and he took my words
and put them on a platter
and, with them, sat his--
delicious, appealing, and
poisonous
telling of how you love him
and you swore to me--
he was nothing--
less of a friend than I--

either way,
you'll cause my emotional death

make me sour for any woman
much  
           less
                   you

and now,
finally,
unlike every other time
I haven't forgiven you
I have but made you seem forgiven

for, now, at the last,
is the time for me to pull
the strings--
for me to ruffle your feathers

and I hope you tumble down
and eventually make it to my level
where you see the gods from below

and find them

all
but
divine

An initial glimpse,
then the secret knowing glances,
then the full stare:
No discomfort, no unease,
nonthreatening,
but in total rest and bliss,
of the most intimate oneness.

You found the one
you unknowingly seek
since the day you’re born.
Eyes penetrating eyes,
naked soul caresses naked soul.
Time ceases, the world dissolves;
It can go on for all eternity.

But tyrannical flesh forcibly
wakes you from your transcendence,
And reminds you of your *******
to the laws of man and nature;
By an act of sheer will,
you forcibly closed the window to your soul;
And returned to being a hardened stranger,
familiar with the hidden pains and agonies of denial.

But the spirit does not lie,
And love cannot be denied,
And the soul demands to be set free,
From the ******* of flesh and man.

Thus it knows this world is not home, and
neither for despair was the glimpse given,
but to reveal and affirm heaven, where
the soul is free and truly loves, in
perfect blissful oneness eternally.

My fingers cramp easily enough
when there’s nothing
weighing them down.
My mind is numb at the first
black phantom offering
of hope;
always running from what could be,
preferring that nonthreatening illusion
while time goes by
so subtly,
just wilting away
today.
Still the broken won't heal
entirely;
I've learned it,
regretted it,
repeated it
too many times.
Though, it wasn't quite a broken bone,
but I wouldn't say it wasn't anything,
just a link
in the chain
that I wear as decoration
no longer bothered by the discomfort
of its weight
worn with pride
for its humiliation.
So goes my day
in the vacuum of time,
condemning everything to the irrelevant.

I've been missing out on something
for a really long time now
it's starting to (finally) to make sense
and I'm beginning to (finally) understand our fascination
with each other

Maybe my past has been preventing me from experiencing it
Or perhaps it's my current state of body and mind
the two are so closely linked that I can't properly pry them apart.

Maybe that's why I love children
so nonthreatening and uncaring  
so small and close, without a care of convention

Maybe that's why I don't know a whole lot of vital information
about myself- that apparently I SHOULD know
that apparently everybody else on this ******* planet knows

But last night I saw it
in that old hole in the wall  
I saw the way she looked at him and how he looked back
I saw how couples were holding hands, getting closer
I saw friends all dancing together
and I realized that I am really bad at all this connection
I can connect to you with words, not touches
I realized that when he put his arm around my waist
and I froze and pulled away
I just couldn't, even though it might have been nice

Maybe it will be someday- maybe I will be able to let go
but for now I am aware, and that's enough

You are the most nonthreatening person I know

And I'm so
*******
Jealous

Because I hate
That when I move too fast,
My friends flinch

I hate
That when I get excited and loud,
My friends get mad and tell me to stop shouting,
As if I have no right to be excited, happy

As if I can just fold in on myself,
Be smaller

I'm too hard and big and strong to be viewed as
Gentle
And I hate that I'm not viewed as
Kind

I wish my lines were softer, like yours

me.gs

My words don't know peace. They are the nightshades all over a hunting ground. They are the bending of sunlight as it slices itself against headstones. They are a patchwork of all the cruel things I've done with my hands. They are the birds of prey, circling overhead a wounded doe. My words don't know peace — they are made of every last bit of my chaos, barely contained by my fingers. They are made of every last bit of my violence made to look nonthreatening. Gentle as the wind and tame as a field of roses — the thorns, left buried in your back.

Still, a refugee trembles, hides beneath her battle scars. She recognizes the wars waged in her skin — the cruel way they stay long after the last battle — the cruel way they don't know peace.