par les vous francais? nope.

I'm going to paris tomorrow.
yay.

that is all.

keeping up with the joneses

safari gone wild

they walk
barefoot
and nearly naked,
hair in braids
skin mud-stained

an attempt to conceal
their white privilege
and "civility"

perfectly round breasts
adorned by necklaces
keep the women
leashed
under the control
of their master

they pose for pictures
insecure
but secured

two smile
the third
hides her face in shame...

the challenge
of walking a mile
on another's path
makes for a good photo opp

they'll brag to their friends
about the safari they went on

hanging with the savage
uncivilized
natives

i desperately need to write something other than shit.
i need a new writing challenge.
i need a topic.

i need my mind to think clearly

i need more than a few hours of sleep each night.

i need TIME.

unraveled

I laughed when you tore
the Sun’s astrology pages
into strips of confetti,
and flung their false sentiments
from the balcony,
where they settled in muddy puddles
like marooned white petals
soaking up filth.

Delighted by your encyclopaedic
recall for facts, dates, explanations –
I would lean over your shoulder,
a vague toddler;
asking and finger-jabbing
as you doodled diagrams
on beer mats.

We’d switch off the History Channel
half-way through documentaries,
knowing you had already gone
beyond their bite-size range
and could expand upon it all
with greater finesse.
The television became
a discarded object
towards which all our furniture
had mysteriously gravitated…

It was unnerving, to be this sudden
symbol of exposed ignorance;
a precarious flamingo
with no leg to stand on
as knowledge stampeded through
each one of my barren gorges.
Even the admitted-to gaps in your wisdom
offered little hope for a future
in which we erected bridges across them;

I was too far behind,
could only gather
the dust and olive branches
marking your trail
whilst you galloped ahead
in search of bigger and better materials.
I took refuge, “as-per-fucking-always”
in shelves of fiction – something you,
lacking imagination,
continued to dismiss
as a complete waste of time.

It wasn’t just a need to be
sucked into alternative dimensions;
it was to convince myself
that aspirations of becoming a literary intellectual,
if nothing else, were within reach. Worlds where
you couldn’t follow – refused to – I revelled,
and filed their titles for later use.

It was my little scrap of dignity:
to reign supreme
in an exclusive corner of academia;
to know I could
bowl over your bluster
with a litany of classics and writers
and linguistic terminology.

I exercised restraint
with your grammar, reserving
red ink underlines
for internal triumph and emergencies.
Over-brimming with science,
you ruined rainbows for the kids;
sneered at my love affair with the sky.

Fucker.


“Pets do not love their owners.
The illusion is merely a result
of operant conditioning.”

Quite.

Thanks for the enlightenment, dear.

divorce

inversions and metric conversions and numbers
slipping back and forth
undulating through time
in a third
a second-
time to burn, to breathe,
chanting. searching. for a...repose,
define me
in the darkest of landings
flat-bottomed boats traversing the catacombs
and I need you
to need me
to need this to all
end.

over.
over and out.
like a walkie talkie game

full moon

i went to bed with wet hair.
scant few inches, curling,
dripping.
but i waited,
upon your insistence

find your rest between my knees,
soothe your tipsy head.

esoteric

beautiful one, you are
sliding serenely into sleep
like satin sheets
like silk pajamas
like the Dreamer’s
coat of many colors.

you are
alice in wonderland,
drifting down the white rabbit’s hole,
careless of appointments
and dates.

tired woman, you are slipping
so casually
into sleep:

as though dreams
are meant to be taken
lightly.

dereliction

and in the fields where the forget-me-nots
climb sideways, pious and succinct
with bees hanging like earbobs from their blue heads,
the minister composes a sermon and the cicadas
and scrub-legged locusts murmur blasphemies –
apostasy among the tallgrass.

the sun slides along the sky like a gastropod – on it's stomach –
and the houseboat snails ferry across the porchsteps
as mother kneads bread in the kitchen, which expands like the holy spirit.
she tells me that the yeast is alive – a thousand tiny grains
dehydrated creatures, which cluster like the white
membranous conclaves of ant eggs I find under the stepping stones.

the self-important clouds decay at a half-life
the brush of the wind gentle and loveless
and the men standing in the doors of the church as father
talks parables and scripture – he has not had a baptism in seven months.
it has been a dry season.

we hide under the eaves, in the shade after church,
like numbers huddled under a division sign
and father locks himself in his study to read the bible and to pray
as he always has these past seven months, praying for a baptism.
the trees stand waterless and black in the sun,
their leaves curling like lips in disgust
pageantry of the field, choir of the tallgrass

the dry mountain oversee us
like barons

and father's prayers evaporate from his lips.

cultural infidel

Last night
I wrote a letter
Not a love letter;
salutation and small talk and signature,
so cliché
and typical.

C’est la vie.

bee

remember how i stroked the bee that hovered
over the bones of your wrists, and felt your strength
in that ink and epidermal kiss?

and how you stung, and tore out my guts.
swelled my belly with your farewell,
my baby larva, my honeybee.
born without your spirals and swirls,
but with your eyes
and your dark dusting of curls.

sin

raucous, moonlit laughter
hidden beneath
a stone ledge.
the greenery shades
our drunken haze.
but adam's nowhere
to be seen
in paradise.
serpent
lips tried
to find my cheek.
he corners me,
before we leave,
takes me, ominously;
and his hand slides past
my waist
to rest upon
another place.
where's the birthday girl?

for once
it wasn't me...

now

this is it,
can you feel it?

I think you do.

jesus bling

What could be better than "The Last Supper" bling?
One of my kids let me borrow his bling for a kodak moment. They were criticizing my lack of accessories- and in moments, all was right with the world and I was adorned with the Jesus bling. It's kinda like being King for a day. Jesus Bling is way more badass than a crown of thorns. my disciples are way more bad ass too.
anyways....

my brain is fried and my writing has been absolute shit lately. bollocks. all these random lines in my head and not a damn one of them has materialized into anything decent. it's just not happening. I need to write more or I'm going to implode...

the sweetest sin

You pray that jesus will visit me,
and help me to save myself
from abomination


I laugh...

my bed covers are tossed like confetti
a naked woman lay asleep in my bed,
spent
empty beer bottles, an exhausted bag of weed
and a myriad of clothing
artistically adorn the room
like an interior designer
who makes their living
stuffing silk flowers
in "genuine" crystal vases

is there really enough of my
sex-starved body left for Him to pull
from the pool of indulgence?
what, with it being so overfed with sin
binging on the touch of a
woman's hand, fingers...
lips
and the sweet taste that lingers on my tongue...


breasts touch breasts
the shape of a heart
draws itself in the space separating
racing organ from
racing organ
blue veins, red arteries
bursting like over-ripened
strawberries at the mercy
of her fingertips

necks arching elegantly
from cotton clouds of
sweat and estrogen

we were both as beautiful
as Cleopatra when our eyes
met those opposite

snow

free write challenge comparing a person to snow.


He is snow. Much loved, yet ice.
A trembling touch
He fits the palm of my red hand.

But he, is snow - and he crumbles
Under reckless weight
Of those who feel snow is a game

He is snow. Hardened, hollow
From a dark, cruel night
Quaking under a fragile moon.

He is snow, with a desire to be melted.
He couldn't be held
Long enough to be understood.

Fire and Ice could never co-exist
Yet how they loved
And longed to be more permanent.

Park

I'm searching
for
proof of life
a signal
sign
that somewhere beyond this reality
is another.one that was ours

when we lazed in parks
hand in hand
sauntering through summer's heat
and shifting seasons...
parked in pleasure gardens
under autumn's leaves
crisp air growing cooler
time ticking to
winters blast...
when
a new year brought
breakfast in bed
and love sprints down highway 81
we feasted on love
trapped and tangled under our covers
where markers bled into mattresses
concealing
a starving hunger
that lurked into
spring
and without notice
the self sabotage was seeping into summer...

fading in and out
the spiral began
reality was lost, truth was blurred
and it was over before it began.

The truth is
time is cruel
and memories are unreliable
and the best thing
that never happened is parked in
some park
waiting
for love to arrive,
and years spent trying to forget
will only make the memory
that much more indelible...

today is a good day.

that is all.

framed.

I see you
Framed in every window
Of those houses
Stretched in front of me;
As their curtains ache
For a tender brush of your skin.
Your smile aimed only at me
Turns to that smirk,
And I shrink
To dust,
Like the ashes
Of the joint-
Inhaled deeply,
The way only you do...

Breathe me in.

Trophy Wife

Another acrostic...


It was ingrained in
Me from the beginning- the importance of

Accessories.

That is until I became one-
Resting on your arm
Obediently standing beside you
Poised and polished at all times...
Hiding my intellect and free spirit because
You demanded it... I was

Whirling into the nothingness until
I couldn't be silent any longer- Today I
Found my voice. Fuck you and your
Expectations, I'm done.

lucky girl

Check your smile
in the blemished mirror
And give your pride a rest.
Lucky girl.
Swinging hair
Yearbook smile
All the while, she’s drifting inside
like tissue papers in the wind.
( Swirling, twirling, lost and gone.)
Lucky girl.
Hides her pain
with a sweetly glossed grin
to cover the bruised lips.
Always on the fringe,
beyond the outskirts.
Lucky girl.
There's have-nots and haves.
courses in naivity, envy and how to jaded 101,
where witty come-backs play like a soundtrack
Popularity is roulette for a
Lucky Girl.
There are those who know and those
who'll never learn.
The residue of everything she’s always wanted,
but that somehow slid right past her,
concealed under her too sugary
cotton candy fingernails.
Confidence borrowed from
a denim coat and poet’s lace.
A vision of togetherness
(falling all apart)
Her face, she doesn’t want you to recall.
Her laugh, you won’t forget.
Lucky girl wears sadness like a Homecoming
corsage.

fear

Punishing each tear with
the back of my hand
each tear that falls,
avoiding eye contact
afraid
of the words that will spill
from my lips
holding my breath
at each set of approaching footsteps
and
expecting to find him
on my front step
or behind the shower curtain
and at the end of every dream
I fight to escape
but cannot.

ramblings on sharing a shower....

Oh...so many sea secrets, this underwater girl, swimming up in her lilac mess


There she is in the very womb of me, not inside of me but inside my world. Touching my things, seeing my secret world, my intimates. She is in my bathroom, in my shower, touching the things that I use to wash away my sins and pains. There she is, in the place where I have bathed and soaked, stewed and cried, the place where I have rejuvenated, tore myself apart, put myself back together again, the place where I go to start fresh again, my bath tub. She has no idea the places she is touching and we are just flirting. On the exterior we are playing this game, offering up, assessing, appreciating each other... but, she has no idea how deep my shell echoes. That I throw my voice out there and sometimes it never comes back. I listen to her working and I stretch on my couch and feel a shift, a shiver, a release, an arrow to a heart and I know something new inside.

My soul is all kissed up.

mountaintop

Let me wake the stars
with a song
from a mountaintop retreat
let me meet my Master, my tao in
the wise hills
When the moon is a sliver of silver
let me pen my wishes in the earth’s soul.
Strength from the smallest wave
ripples into my prayer
making me one with Yaweh.
The wind is breath, I live.
The echoes in the valleys are my courage, I dance.
The whisper of leaves are my peace, I’m free.
When the last star yawns its waking
I will have found my will
Here.

sell me cheap

When I Leave

keep nothing.
Spread me out
among the violets
and honeysuckle;
lay me in the bluegrass
to gaze into the boundless
blue skies.

Sell me cheap
like a vintage bargain.
Let strangers
fumble through
the memories of me
and laugh as you recall
my quirks
and filthy language.

As for the books
give them away,
but only to those who
appear to have a soul.
Those who will pour over the underlinings
scribbled notes in the margins,
and folded edges.

As for my poems and journals,
they were my life.
sit back with a bottle of
cheap wine,
and all of my friends.
Read my secrets.
Finally know me.

memories trapped in scents and sounds

Distinct smells seem to trigger memories. I encounter certain scents and moments in time are born again. The scent of my grandmother's perfume catches me every now and again and takes me back to her, back to the days when I was a daughter and everything was watercolored and drawn in pastels. Back to those days after something traumatic, when I just wanted to be lullabied. I was like a chick who had pecked its way through the shell and lay exhausted and damp with the smells of life. Only rather than trying to exit that little membrane, that shell, I was trying to climb back in.

After the bad times, perfume and music were what got me through. I listened to the same song, on repeat for days. It was the only sound I wanted around me. I tried not to hear his voice, or the echoes of those from my childhood. I tried not to hear my own muffled sobs and pleads, or the sounds of ambulances and strangers with stethoscopes and charts. And I thought if I sprayed enough of her perfume and kept my eyes closed and concentrated on how my body would move to those sounds, then I could make it. Every strand of that song is a part of my body, it echoes in my cells. I hear it, when there is no music, no humming, I feel it in my veins and in the husks of my soul. It is my safety music, a safety net for a girl who has none. A soft place to land, that I have tried to create, however loosely woven and self-invented it is.

beneath the dust

Beneath the dust,
the cast off faces and places are exposed,
memories surface like trinkets
and sink.
snippets of a grin, a game, of youth
indolent grace.
a locket of recollections, resolutions, reinventions
[of rage, to escape, to survive]
generations of photographs
generations of unspeakable abuse.
I see myself,
among their faces and places
now cast off ‘neath the dust,

though sometimes I wish I didn't.

peeling an orange

I love to peel oranges, especially navel ones, because the skin is so thick and it makes that gratifying little sound, like...pffttt when you first pierce the skin and the orange mist spray gets all in your face. I had to study it for a while. Anyway, back to my point...
So, I decided I was going to peel my orange and try to keep the whole skin intact, not pulling off any pieces, just making a little opening, just enough to pull the orange out in a whole ball, but all the skin still intact. The skin is this perfect ball, just sitting there, like a husk. I can see the stamen sticking up through the center, it’s so beautiful.
The process was so meticulous in and of itself. I rolled the orange in my hand to loosen up the juices, I could feel them all pressing into the orange. Then I pierced the skin with my fingernail. I worked my finger into the orange and loosened all around the skin, breaking the little white veins that hold the fruit like a net. Then I just worked to move it out of the space I had created.
And now I'm admiring my orange peel ball. It feels a bit like a basketball, round, of course, but the surface is slightly bumpy and sorta...hmmm...smooth? Can something be both bumpy and smooth at once? The top of the bumps sorta feels smooth perhaps, making it feel like a second surface beneath my fingertips, which by the way have that sharply sweet tangy smell to them.

But this orange is...just like a woman, strong...full of mystery and wonder and complication; complete with a little baby, clinging to her side. Peeling oranges is an art, a celebration of citrus and of the wonder of life, the mysteries of womanhood, and of beauty in the oddest and most simple places.

earth

They were right about this planet, you know:
it's a flat-screen
and we droop across its landscape
like the dregs of a 3am house party
[cans, cups and trash strewn about, bodies slumped
in euphoric bliss];
exhausted but triumphant to be awake
in unnatural light.
Dim glow buzzes
through the ashtrays and grease
and our stares are those of zombies
or babies,
unable to support our own skulls
or do anything constructive without being prodded.
Disaster strikes and
we swap it for the more digestible
colors of cartoon energy;
continents could crumble and we would merely
change the channel.
Don't we all [secretly]
wish for an international remote control,
so that we could point – zap – and
silence the constant violence;
the senseless;
the too-complex;
the it’s-all-our-fault-I-guess;
ourselves…overall,
this big global mess?

photograph of lies

Self Loathing topped
With false confidence
An ice cream sundae
Of deceit and doubt

Perfection projected
from photoshoped images
a portrait of family
Conceals a nightmare of reality

Ironed on expressions
Forced smiles not meant
A flash of supposed to be
Placed on the wall for the world to see

Photograph of Lies...

it's wednesday.

tuesday i put neosporin on a student's stab wound, who was subsequently expelled for fighting back during the stabbing. I should also mention he was stabbed in the back, right near his spine.
I try not to seem too shocked by the things these kids endure. This is their normal, and if I indicate that it's abnormal, i've lost all credibility. Fortunately for me, when he first told me he had been stabbed, I thought he said slapped, so I shrugged it off.
The thing that stuck with me is that he also had a cut on his knuckle so i offered him some stuff to clean it up with. he's not the kind of kid you'd typically offer a bandaid to, but I did anyways. He seems more like the kind of would just wipe his hand on his pants, even if they were filthy, and move along.
I was trying to be careful when I offered the bandaid, I didn't want to be too motherly, or baby him. but then he shocked me.
Not only did he want the bandaid, but he wanted me to put it on for him. When he asked for that, I felt like I was taking care of my 4 year old nephew- a fragile little boy.

Then he asked if I could put some neosporin and gauze on his stab wound- and i snapped back to reality.

not my reality, but his.

he lifted his shirt and i saw a wound that probably should have been stitched... a wound that could have been much worse had it been a bit deeper... a wound that made my stomach turn for a thousand different reasons...

This kid has a tardy mother, absent father, and crack addicted grandmother/guardian with whom he shares a one bedroom apartment.

No wonder he wants a bandaid.

i want a bandaid too. a giant fucking bandaid.

poetry is a bullet

2 minute free verse challenge. "What is poetry?"


Poetry is false
it is a delusion of grandeur
a distorted perception of life
confessing love and genius
in a string of perceptual words
creating a fantasy
that the words actually mean something

poetry is for robots
we believe ourselves to be profound beings
editing other people's writing
as if ours has developed an idea
these letters put together
to make a word that makes a fragment
no use for commas period
and I run on and on
believing that my expressions in syntax
and declarations of independent clauses
will rectify something in your beating heart

poetry is not love making
it is a only a page
poetry will never let me kiss you
under a midnight sun
poetry will never change your mind
about what I have become

endless metaphors recycled
into new similes
and I keep repeating myself

poetry is a noun
and love is a verb
and you were the subject
of my silent thoughts
no matter how fluid
or creative I get on a blank page
poetry means nothing

poetry is a suicide note
it is a bullet
that is terrified of blood
it is a knife
too scared to slice a throat
poetry is a dead leaf
waiting to be crushed
by those who have forgotten
how green
it used to be

they ask about my religion...

I sit underneath
a dirty fluorescent light,
that hums with a vibrato
I can feel in my throat,
speechless.

I'd like to tell them
I saw Darwin and Jesus
sitting at the bar
arguing about
what the meaning of life should be
until they got drunk
and went home,
together,
to work on creation.

I'd like to tell them
it doesn't matter
because we will all die
in hope of peace
broken in pieces...
because most wars are fought
over religion.

I'd like to tell them
we'll die
under the heat of the moon
and the pall of the coffin
will be our midnight sky,
that our sins will remain unwashed;
that there's a beauty in
revealing to ourselves and the seas
that we have been unclean.

I'd like to tell them
there's strength
in knowing that you alone
are responsible for your life,
no one to blame
or pray to
and that forgiveness
isn't always granted.

It would be easier to tell them
about my lord and savior

except I don't have one
or want one.

74

All around us
Lights stream
Blazing trails of sovereignty.
Along the darkened forests edge
Women wander
In the wonders of
This Eden

On the seventh day
They'll all spin out-
The beauty will recede
Innocuous and nimble
And we'll each fade into
Our alternate existence...

But for now, there is this...

If I could still this moonlit moment
Between clean sheets of mime and melancholy,
slumbered by creeping shadows,
The night would hold itself
Like untouched inertia;
No breath, but a star-stained sky.

Big Top

2 minute "Michael Jackson" free verse challenge.



When he
touched-down
on the moon

madness rotated
some distance
beyond

& the media glare
from telescopic
spyware
singed a hole
in the sun’s
stellar core

it was distracting -
and disheartening
and sickening,
but the boy danced
his way through

interrogative flashes
paparazzi surging
upon doorsteps

like wasps
colonizing
a secluded picnic

much more absorbing
than the current
state of the world

so stick fingers in ears
& gawp

at the shiny-shiny
neon lights

the circus has come to town.

midway

The Ferris Wheel once towered
Over our abandoned park
With spindly spines aloft,
But bicycle spokes to us,
Dominated only by our pride,
The ivy,
And of course, the inferno,
The blaze...

And in that long-spun Carousel
Of our abandoned park,
Despite chipped paint,
We rode the pastel stallions,
Broken only by our innocence,
The mesquite,
And of course, the inferno,
The blaze...

The roller coaster once had power
Over our abandoned park.
The cloud-worthy cars,
Just fog-worthy,
Struck still only by our wishes,
The thorns,
And of course, the inferno,
The blaze...

And when you fell down, down,
From our abandoned park,
From the trestled tracks we strode,
Your memory had gone blind,
Diseased,
And of course, swiped.
Stolen...

The Midway once had charm
In my abandoned park,
Taken only by a fall, the brambles,
And of course, the inferno,
The blaze which stole away the rest
As I waltzed into the flames.

My answers sleep inside my bones
I try for
I lie for
I pray for understanding
but there's no love.

It's nothing you hum in songs or uncover in movies.
It fleets past you in ticket lines and huddles past you in crowded coffee houses.

Awakening Sunset

AWAKING SUNSET

She knelt and whispered, clutching her soul to her side, for it had escaped her somehow (through some uncanny manner, unknown). Yet she clenched it hard, in failing fingertips; though her grip would never falter, she knew better than to let go, you see.

There was a tale to tell, or perhaps several, but she didn’t know if the waves would listen, really listen, and talk back to her. Answers were what she was looking for, and she held her soul out to that great expanse of blue and grey hues, as if offering a chalice. She hoped it would accept, and grant her the freedom she wished. For this was the way she had always wanted to go, in a state of contented melancholy, palms turned upwards, giving of herself to something stronger than she.

Strength was not something she lacked, but something that had not occurred to her to claim as her own. Her strength was always something she attributed to other people, naming them as the cause that propelled her through life.

She didn’t know what it meant to be whole anymore. She had lost a little of herself with each new experience that tainted her, and though she realised that the parts they were replaced with moulded her, she did not care much for the person she had become in those seven years.

Her thoughts were interrupted as the blinkered sunset bent behind the horizon, leaving a trace streak of orange burning like a lone candle across the dusky sky. She thought of the moon, that glistened brightly as it dawned above her head, and the stars she had told only one person that she yearned for. Oh, how she yearned for those stars, to stretch their light far enough to cast hope into her eyes, or carry her away with them. Stars are what dreams are made of, or at least, her dreams. Their twinkling lights told her of lost cities and other worlds, of forgotten loves, and answers to the bleak questions she fired at them whenever they came out to play. Nothing caught her imagination quite like those stars.

In the hazy darkness rolling above her, she saw clouds hovering, as if waiting for her to continue her story. To her, they were a warning beacon; soon, there would be no light left, and only when her body washed up on the shore in several days, would her story have an ending. But, if she left the world in such a way, there would be no closure, and while it was life’s ambiguity that paved her path to brighter places she wasn’t sure it would suffice for those left behind.

For this time around, she knew she was sometimes wanted, sometimes needed, and this knowledge only increased the magnetic pull, the want, the need of the ending she so desperately sought.

Then the night had at last fallen, and her words trailed in semi-darkness across the paper, and the story, Her Truth, would never see the closure it desired.

horizon

I touched my hand toward the horizon,
unfolding a lark from the sky.
Stepping back,
barefoot, lush and freed...

I learned
not all of me is heavenbound.

paradise lost

Wet in the moon-kissed sand
tossed from the sea
like a frail pink shell,
awaiting the hand of a beachcomber.
The tide pulls pearls of sadness
from my lax hand
tucks them to her womb.
And I watched the last
star close shut like the
oyster’s shell.

Eden found.

time...

I have all this time to write, now. right now. ha.
The freedom of an entire summer is stretched out before me.

Words are calling me back. Like yearbooks, like lost love letters and pressed secrets in trunks, they call to me through the dust, "remember me, girl?" And I think that I do.

sonnet 130 and a half.

writing while high. let the mindfuckery begin!



Spake[ache]S[he]hard (Sonnet 130 and a half: The Remix)

My mistress' iEyes sh[y]ne brighter than the suuOn,
Her Lips, their.protrUding.pout, a SofT red...
Her sweet [tend]her skin, her breasts, Mmmmmm fun...
I'd give anything tO stay all day in bed.

Her teeth are sharp aNd she likes to bite;
Pleas[her]ure wiTh pain is what she seeks...
And I must confess it is a del[higH]t--
PrURiEnt thoughts Stay with me for weeks...

I l.o.v.e to read h.e.r thoughts, most of which iEye know-
Ot[he]rs spin me in circles, ro[W]und and ro[W]und,
Until I'm dizzy and it's time to go...
Then my feet are unstable on solid ground

And yet, it's this that I [ev]love most--
How She Holds Me up like a post.

symphony of release

Numb
A vacant void unable to feel
And make this real…
A crescendo of frustration building
Then it happened-
Urged by instinct, a shard of glass is moving about in sonata-allegro
form.
Scarlet beads rising to the surface,
Dis...con ..nec..ted
But ever increasing in size
Until the billowing pearls became a constant trickle…

A rapturous release
And I was hooked,
An aficionado
Anxiously anticipating the
next movement…

It became an affair of sorts...
An adagio-
Graceful, well-controlled...
Finding the right instrument,
The right space with which to conduct the melody
That will execute this absolution of sin
Bringing deliverance from this evil
Festering within

And finally I FELT
pain.free.

To compose a scherzo of lacerations waltzing
This way and that
Without hesitation
Until a rondo of indelible scars
Is all that was left

Distilling me

Bringing purity.

landscape imagery

Borderline Synapse

a LANDSCAPE of thoughts
exist In the interstitial space
of My cerebrum, cerebrating cerebricity;
defrAgmenting the ideas and notions as they emerge
merGing into pellucid thoughts, MY
sEmi-conscious mind elucidating words with similar roots
the Randomness swirling about, like Van Gogh's "Starry Night"
rarelY stimulating intellect, subsisting
without direct COMMENTARY or NARRATION...

porch swing

I see my mother.
But only in puzzle pieces:
the cotton blue shirt with its threebrown-eyed buttons,
a barrette or stiff loafers worn to softness.
Within this interlude,
she swings alone
offering her weary arms and legs
a rest, liberated from
handicap's titanium
so that she
is now gliding on the breeze
the slow "c are I t c hhh- c are I t c hhhh"
of the glider's squeak
creating a rhythm to her anecdotes
and song.
She created that rhythm two-fold
one for each of us, a soundtrack from adolescence
to adulthood
just as she perfected it
summers and springs before.
With each day that passed we
became the only trophies
she longed to win.
And as I recall her countenance
behind my reverant eyes
and her song fighting for its
freedom in my closed mouth,
she is re-incarnated as
the bulb's annual blossom
or the ceaseless chant of the locust.
I search my face and yours,
for those things misplaced
and forgotten.
Sure as days that passed on the calendar
and as real as the idleness in my cupped hands,
as cumbersome as the basin in my soul,
I know.
There are ten lifetime's ways to live and love within each of us.

sunflower

I coil heavily,
just as a sunflower
bows her head
into the sun.
rising still
to a farther light,
beyond which
my eyes witness-
my roots dive deeply
into the abundant bluegrass below me
seeking my origin
my source
my strength...

even the wildest flowers
need to know from which they blossom...

Walmart

I plot my escape from the million dollar mansions on the hill
Andrea Gibson's spoken words swimming around in my head-
There are no pretentious health food stores for hundreds of miles
I resort to driving to the nearest Walmart
With her words fresh in my mind to keep from feeling depressed
In the economically devastated city,
Its dilapidated buildings crumbling…
Poverty rears it’s head in the parking lot;
Rusty caravans with dings and dents,
Duct-taped garbage bag covered windows,
Thick gray emissions trailing behind…

There are three types of people here:

The Mexicans.
Are you scowling at my generalization?
I used to call them brown-skinned.
Be proud of my growth and we’ll move on.
They crowd the aisles in packs.
Moving slowly like cattle.
The seven year old girl with the belly shirt and dirty, grimy face
Slaps her little sister’s hand as she pulls out greeting cards.
The mother with fully exposed camel toe,
Rolls of heavy flesh spilling over her too tight jeans,
Nipples erect in a barely there shirt and over-conditioned store,
Her subtle peroxide-orange hair pulled back from her round face,
Remains oblivious to her children
As she puts her energy into a decision
Between Mountain Dew and Mountain Lightning.
Dad is barely 5ft with his cowboy hat on
He shifts his weight in bright turquoise pants and matching snakeskin boots
Pearlized bull horns with hints of coral adorn his pleather belt
And work harder to weigh his pants down
Than hold them up.

The White Trash.
Still scowling?
Had I been born a little to the left I’d be poking fun at myself.
These kind don’t need to travel in packs.
Their obese bodies waddling too and fro
Knees brushing against each other awkwardly,
Overburdened by their responsibility.
Just one woman on her scooter wheelchair fills the aisle.
Legs spread to accommodate the expansive mound of flesh that fills her midsection
And brushes against the basket
Greasy potato chips, equate weight-loss shakes and hungry man microwaveable dinners
Fill her cart
Though the hemorrhoid cream and ex-lax are still visible.
Luckily food stamps are accepted regardless of nutritional info.

Us.
We are the others.
The ones who didn’t realize it was the third.
The day the SS checks arrive and the pilgrimage begins.
We try hard to keep our eyes ahead.
We have a goal, just one thing, in and out.
Snubbing our nose at the impulse shoppers,
The overweight, undernourished, illegal
Less-fortunate sons and daughters,
Absentee fathers
And overwhelmed, underpaid mothers
Who were born in the wrong families and went to the wrong schools

WE don’t actually shop here.
We are the self righteous snobs.
The ones who go home to our cushy homes
And write stuff like this.
I take my dollar thirty-seven dollar purchase of vegetables and sunblock,
My contribution to injustice
The generalizations clear in my head...
Listening to Chris Pureka on the drive home
In my gas guzzling Scion box-car, aware of the ironies
Skilled in my justifications, happy in my prowess
Picking and choosing my causes...
Thinking to myself,
we all sell[out] for less.

This window
to your lavendar soul
is not
made of glass.
Your lashes,
though like curtains,
brush away
immaculate tears.

I wept for you.

climbing

the day is climbing over the fields
swallowing the crayon sunsets
as I sit in this room
trying to capture
a bounding poem
with only
this
pen

Towards the Mission

She is a gazelle,
Graceful limbs that
Unfold in a rosy sunrise
A doe with the mildest eyes.
And I am just an orb,
With no fit
My core shudders as I stumble along
on this crumbling sidewalk.
My legs are conceding
with my stock of self-doubt
and susceptible notions
of a spinning world.
Is there a medley of souls that acknowledge another wayward trekker?
As I lose my way
Bring me back...
Come on in out of the crowd of faces
I am a sphere bumbling around
Inside a square,
Seeking a pocket to hide in
Or a pin to pop me
Flushing me out so I can
Fill the corners and be
Less obvious, flooding the area
Instead of navigating
Through a series of bumps
And bounces.
Knowing I will never
Fit.

stifling feminity

Another Acrostic....
This one is about my students... They prance about in to most revealing clothing, posing for pictures every chance they get, sticking their asses in the air like it's their greatest accomplishment... Bragging about their weekend feats, who was the flipper for east durham crips, who proved they can get down by letting Sur 13 run a train on them....



Scantily clad, they are
Temptresses parading by-
Insinuating sexuality gives them power...
Flaunting, begging,
Lusting for love and affection of daddies they've never met,
Instead of thinking for themselves.
Negating their predecessors, slowly
Grating the framework for

Femininity that took years to build-
Enticed instead by masculine acceptance...
Masturbation's value is once again underrated
Indecent liberties occurring all around us
No longer limited to nocturnal emissions,
It's taking over, this
Nightmare of 24/7 prostitution, the
Innate defects of character of those who insist on
Tempting society to only see tits and ass
Yielding to the domination we've fought to overcome

Tuning In

I try to figure out what these poems mean in my life. Mostly because it's supposedly therapeutic, but also because I know Amy will ask. :)
I know they mean something. Sometimes it feels like they appear out of nowhere. They linger in my mind... my sanity teeters on the edge, lost in the phrases and words that appear. my mind is muddled trying to decipher them. I hear them in a childs voice, not just any child, but the child that was once me. For a long time I was stuck- stuck forgetting my past, but unable to move past it until I could accept it. I would halfheartedly try to accept it, try to move, pretend things were ok. But really, I think I was losing it. Random sights and scents would pull me into memories I longed to escape. I was lost in present past and present future. I think that's where this poem came from- listening to the child, who I had been trying to silence. I was her host, and she longed to escape me, but not until I accepted her and her past, which took ten years. I accepted her by allowing her to take over- I went into autopilot and she worked through her past. That's the beauty of EMDR and a good therapist...If that makes any sense.

Tuning In

Seeking translations otherwise impalpable
The surrogate satellite’s stationary spins
Stop
Cautiously clashing in colors
SplashingMergingMeldingFusing
To the collective
we
I
Autopilot.engaged.
propelling.me.straight.forward
With the flip of a switch...
The empty orbs are gone
Instead, illuminated by articulate tongues reincarnated,
Dedicated to deciphering the disciple,
dead after only a decade-
Transposing thoughts,
Expounding meaning,
Illustrating impurities
Otherwise concealed and suppressed-
rendered useless.
But today, they mutate clearly through the cohorts who never shut up-
I, the minion’s host
(Interpreting the world-
My world
Our world-
Through metaphors, riddles spinning round the satellites-
Seeking
Answers.Control.Identity.Validation...)
Come up static and empty-handed
every.time
But never
Alone.

Raw Materials

another acrostic poem....


Risking themselves time and
Again under patriarchal domination
Women are reduced to raw

Materials, possessions, objects...
All the while we debate gender rules
That limit individuality and choice-
Emphasizing compulsory heterosexuality, when what we
Really need is a resuscitation of sexual freedom
In this land of the free,
America, home of the cunning
Linguists who own their vaginas and declare:
Suck my clit.

Burn Me Again

Another acrostic. This is a more playful style. Words and meaning jumble in my mind, and I tried to let them jumble onthe paper as well....



Brazenly branding the flesh, as you instructed...
Un.able to escape your con.trol- I'm
Rekindling old habits, old wounds
Never flinching at the scintillating singe...

Meticulously searching for the right place to
Evisce.rate the flesh and its me.[mori]es of the past-

Ab.solution is within reach-
Glowing bright.ly, no longer
Announc[sing]ing my flaws; You are
In[sin]erating my fears through seared flesh
Numbing me [finally]

unfinished...

Mama told me I'd be a pearl
soon enough...

I've stayed coiled in my shell,
been washed up on shore
to bask in the sunlight
content
sloshing about
drifting...

until I became the ultimate shell of a woman
submitting to the accepted paradigm-
the kind of woman
who orders everything by catalogue
the kind of woman
people haven't seen face to face in years
all they ever get is my small pale hand
drawing back the curtains-
middle finger to the world
in my little washed up dreams

Where to Now?

For a girl with conviction;
the almost-woman with pockets
full of responsibility.
A heat that’s wanton with
the faintest possibilities for love.
And curious eyes that stare past your
easily perceived impressions.
Another letter;
wisdom in ink
fear in the pages, crinkled, crackled,
hope in the seams.
Pockets of hope.
Envelopes of responsibility weigh her down.
Hats full of sadness.
Heart, like a balloon on a string.
She’s the once-remembered
lost in low-esteem.
She’s the girl with conviction.
She’s the girl...the woman,
with convictions.

impure acts of retribution. acrostic challenge

I haven't written many acrostics lately... I was trying to try other styles, but this one happened so quickly in my mind, I couldn't resist penning it.





Infected with your games of
Manipulation and seduction
Professing pleasure when it's really power- I am
Unclean and seeking redemption;
Reparations for the acts that left me
Empty and licentious, with an

Anger that breeds self destruction...
Chastised by those who don't understand the
Terror instilled in victims of
Sexual violence.

Overwhelmed with guilt
Feeding into shame and

Responsibility for actions no one could control
Even perpetrating the same learned
Tragic deeds on others
Repeating the cycle, reparations for
Impeded healing, and
Being forced to deny the
Undeniable- left
Trembling with trepidation.
In a once peaceful dream, fairytales shift-
Once upon a time becomes once again, and
Nothing ever changes that…

anne sexton

"Death starts like a dream, full of objects and my sister's laughter. We are young and we are walking and picking wild blueberries all the way to Damariscotta." Anne Sexton.

evanesce.

I really like trying to find poetry challenges online, but for some reason I don't care to share my writing with those communities. Probably because i don't really like much of what I write. I never really know until after i write it and read it a few times. Sometimes i like it, sometimes I tweak it, and sometimes it's just shit and i try and try to like it, but eventually i delete it because its unlikeable. but i digress... once upon a time i had disordered eating habits. I also was a compulsive exerciser. I did those things because my life was out of control. I was depressed and unhappy in almost every aspect of it, so I made goals that I knew i could attain and it became my focus, my power. And I was good at it. Certain things in my life made my unhealthy habits worse (or better depending on how you view it); my childhood, college, marriage, and being robbed and assaulted at gunpoint etc. Anyhow that's where this came from...



163 and free
But you see my frightened female frame
So I
compress
condense
constrict
contract
restrict
to 142
a matrimonial merger
I am still full and flawed
Territorial expanse
Taking up space
Still can’t erase this place
I’m in
When I see you staring, glaring
Daring to make out shapes and forms
Hips
Breasts
So I fade...
coalesce to evanesce
but I digress to 122
with a gun in my face
And you want to disgrace my space
with what’s about to take place-
this time I'll fight back
118, 112, 104
Recede retire retreat
100… even…
Even if we’re not.

They are still there
Hips
Breasts
The downward spiral begins
Circling
Winding
D O W N
to 89
and things are fine
Nothing fits
Absent tits
Shrinking hips
But my mind slips
And trips…
No longer stable or able and
Euphoria
Takes over
I no longer feel the need to fade

Away

she

she drinks stars like
the moon drinks the tide
basks in the envy of herself
like she was a prize
i watch her
move rhythmically about the floor
like she were one with the axis of time
my heart jumps
at the nearing of her hand
as i watch her pounce
and run about the stage
i find our stories are more alike
than something that wasn't so close to human
she breaks down, she laughs
she is ugly with beauty
from her head to her feet
she is something I am not
she is full human
quite small
but she is not fragile
she is a mouth ready to swallow
the world in one gulp
she cries blue-green tears
from saltwater seas
the rouge upon her lips
is like revolutionary ecstasy
every time i pretend
to kiss her
though I am unworthy
of such grace
passion like that
should not be wasted
on a mere admirer
she tells the stories
that could never leave my tongue
she paints my life in circles
she makes living seem like triumph
she makes death feel like a sin
she cries, she hurts, she wonders
imagines, breathes, fucks, laughs
she is the essence of what the world needs to be
she is beyond definition

Crosswalk

Crosswalk

The thoughts squeal past like
yellow checkered taxi cabs in this subconscious metropolis
The meter counts off with a patronizing
click-tick, the time until her sanity expires
Each landmark of familiarity is now molted from
confusion and hesitation’s oily exhaust.
“Walk this way” seeps into“Yield”
Curves of adventure merge into narrow lanes
Lights wink “Proceed with caution,”
as sirens resound akin to St. Gabrielle’s trumpet
Meanwhile she’s hallucinating on the curb
teetering on the cement cliff
battling those angry metal giants of commerce and status
in her grown-up garb.
“I just want to get there.”
She mumbles
to the white gloves and the face with the whistle.
Remembering when this
adrenaline rush-hour was all that mattered
and forgetting the locale of this eventual
destination.
Looking over her shoulder to determine
exactly where on the intersection
she lost her compass and keys.
Empty hands pull fluff from woolen pockets
as she searches with disbelief
amid her determination.

guarded

Where is this heart?
Trodden and misplaced –
it is kept apart from those with sharp talons.
Gilded wings sweep it skyward,
Safe from the depths of this musty place.
Smoky and deceitful, smoldering illusion,
spider web tails
that give the impression of a home once coveted.
But the rays of truth
show favor.
The gods have made place for comfort.
Safe and separate from their world.
Its kept snuggly, like a faded photograph
in a locket
tucked beneath layers.
And like rungs on a ladder to climb
it is out of reach from your seeking hands
and soft quilted words that are wanton belief.
Like a majesty on her thrown –
arrogance cast down to your countenance.
safe at last
it beats weakly,
tied in crimson bows of time.

fragile

There's nothing new to this hurt process
Wasting trust, squandering feelings like tokens.
Though, I recollect when dreams formed unsullied
stacked like wedding china
And I, a bride for the world

single room apartment for rent- a short story. For mature readers only

What some may define as a casual affair, ours was not. Despite her insistence that she remain “single,” semantics flooded us and long, overly-analytical conversations ensued. The truth is, none of it mattered. My priorities are commissioned to one insatiable, appetent, need: tempestuous, unrelenting, libidinous ... need. I opted to be content with the knowledge that at least once, I had topped her list of things on which to meditate and/or masturbate. Every chance to touch was the beginning of a brand new affair. I wanted to take her exactly as a woman would, breathless and constant, worshiping between her opened thighs. The thrust of my hips translated to the curl in my fingertips- my need to please her. I folded my legs and settled myself in at the head of her well-balanced meal. The rocking is easy as it begins, one finger testing the satin-like waters ahead. The eye contact between us is steady and teasing in this moonlit room. She’s searching for my happiness in the quest for her final thrust. I’m searching for the look that’s coming soon. Her eyes roll slowly back into her reeling head; sweet moans stumble softly from her lips. I let my eyes drop to the task at hand. Watching my fingers disappear and re-appear into her salivating-- mouth. Occasionally I ease back to tease against her pulse. She’s begging me to return, humping my hand with silent pleas. My own lips transform my smile into something evil, a half-smile, a spiraling descent. My left hand slides behind her waist to anchor her for the ride. My right hand is 7 degrees warmer than the other. I moisten my fingers one by one before folding three of them together and nestling them deeply inside her little single room apartment for rent. However this is categorized, whatever we should call this; I am here now, in my element. Others have oxygen and food, my list, for now, glistens in the glow of her (dare I say it?) eager cunt. Faster, faster, my own exhales mix with her gasping breaths. I’m urging her on as she starts to cradle her own clit with fervent intent. Her free hand reaches out to pull on my nipple, a stern gesture of appreciation. Our movements fall in sync as I reposition myself over her rolling, undulating, sweaty form. With her eyes closed and mouth open I give in to temptation and position my pinched nipples against her parched and pleading lips. She sucks hungrily at each one while I speed the rhythm between her legs. Her thighs are closing in on my sinking forearm as I bend my fingertips up, pulling waves from the sweetest spot. The night air of the open window carries away the sounds of our love. Her deep guttural moans, punctuated with subsequent involuntary purrs, chase my words through the holes in the bedroom screen. Her breath settles as her arms snuggle me closer in. She cups my face in her hands and kisses me deeply, letting me believe, if only for tonight, that I truly am the only one.




***** This needs work. I dislike some of the language.******** i seem to write so many sexual poems, i had to try out a story... the weird part is I don't try to write sexual poems.. they just somehow end up that way....

Grace

Patience marches away
Sometimes the exodus is through a sigh
A simple exhale of release-
Senses closed in benediction to your God.
Prayer for simplicity,
for Tao’s uncarved block
peace of mind or hell or whatever...
anything that will pacify the next instant.
Creeping, sluggish, demons of doubt
wait to drape about you
but a sudden rush of wings around
you fans them a w a y.
Your chains are freed.
Your thoughts are your own.
No longer borrowed.
Breathe.
Until the girl you once were laughs in your ear.
Easy now.
Calm
To be one whole heartbeat
within the chaos.
You become the zen
The sleeping eyes in the restless wake of day.
To resume once more.
Doing -Being -
Whoever you were two minutes or twenty years ago.
Simple, your own earthsister,
soulmother,
born both of fire and rain.
Once again, humbled by the divine
Grace
you’d forgotten.

before they land

I look back at the measured seams,
bantam buttons,
tidy patten shoes...
I can never fit back into that girl,
that lifetime, again.
Seeds falling from my hand
bloom before they land.




my mojo disappeared with that last round of thunder... damn. another unfinished thought...oh well. no point forcing it. until we meet again....

sleep

Sleep is sitting outside my windowsill, like a fairy poised and impish, fleeting and illusive,

a mystery for one more hour.

Tea cup

Watching adolescent hands become womanly ones;
gentle angel-kissed and time-blessed extensions of my grandmother
coax me from the passage of my former self.
Each time I lift a tea cup
there is a a story that is passed between the two of us.
Now I see in the compact those round blue eyes,
fashioned like those
from a dime store cupie doll,
unexplicablly wiser than yesterday’s
or so I recall.
But in this soul is a wickedly young banchee child
is screaming with joy.
Ponytails damp with summer’s sweet sweatpuddle -
wet feet tapping out a limerick on the sidewalk.
She is sucking honeysuckle from the side of the house
and riding pastel chalk drawn ponies in her mind.

Liasons

This one is from a hundred word challenge:


Oh, to hap your gaze with poise,
not aversion to diagonals,
to perpendicular places
where our conversation
orbits my senses
and reconciles itself
for senseless sentiment.

And oh, those thoughts,
those thoughts of coy clandestine meetings
flushing to my cheeks...

I cast myself before these times
when love
was only a flitting, flirting word
in folded stationary
and creased paperbacks.
here you are
alight to my unbelieving eyes,
pecking gently on this pane
like a blue-jay...

I, the cruel absent-minded mistress,
beckoned you
to my outstretched hand,
but I have no golden corn for you-
'twas only a child's game.

Playdate

We’re eluding this
uneasy love
like children tagging along
in summers yawning nightfall.
Only two parents of nature
could end this careless sprint,
this reckless spell:
cupid and fate.

Slipping

I slip
Between things now.
Ideas of what you said were
W e l l - i n t e n t i o n e d;
Between Wednesday and Saturday
The clock slipped, too.
Rings on my fingers slipping off,
There is less of me to fall between the cracks.

machete

I'm tearing through the underbrush of my mind, scratching the floor of my existence to try and find what it is that is the element of it all. What does it come down to? Disappointingly, I cannot hunt or corner it. I cleave to this urge to machete my way through it all: the pain, the sentiments, the memories, the faces and if I must, through the days. Is there a still pool somewhere? I thirst, with no cup and dirty hands.

time and space

...those are the words that come to mind when I think of my family. I need time. Lots of time. I always will. And the distance between us will always be too great, and too close at the same time. I wonder if they think of me as me, or if I'm still the person they created when I lived with them. The child who didn't speak for most of her adolescence, the child who tiptoes around them and does as she's told. The child who won't stop trying to please them. No matter how many times I try to show them I'm not her, they still won't see me. But I see them every time I look in the mirror. Sometimes his face looks back, other times it's hers. I'm not sure which I hate more.

empty

I am empty and aligned with the horizon
lace fallen to my feet in a flash of crimson.
but even fallen tokens disrupt each others beauty,
grief turned over.
The scarlet sun shifts silently to silver moon,
the sky moves all night until she is red again.

mirror stage

I've never liked
looking in the mirror.
Something about the reflection there
never suited me.
That face can't be mine.
So today when
I felt your heart beating
in my chest
I wondered
at the strangeness of your particular rhythm
and how it beat so perfectly within me.
One day, maybe,
we will escape back into
whatever it was
we were before.

carousel

All those voices,
sing a round,
a sing-songy round
in her head.
The gravitron refrains
of what is said
become lost
in a carnival of thoughts.

It's easy to get
turned about,
a whirling girl
with a sing-song
round in her head.
Looking over her
shoulder at those yesterdays,
the dancing colors,
wishes strung like bright bulbs,
they paraded past
so fast.
So fast.

And the future tilts
around in her head.
A carousel girl
spying her make-believe
rescue steed.

Her ticket to ride
lost amongst the
confetti.

graffiti

Seeking my origin
I'm bounding in and out of puddles
masquerading in mirrors
pacing the abandoned tracks
circumventing my past...
teetering on the curbs
that are almost home.

I sit on the top of the steps
and debate the consequences
of moving up and falling down...

like once colorful city graffiti,
now drab,

I was here.

reverse peristalsis

She was always
Seeking the paragon
Of purity
Knowing it was preposterous.
But in her distorted mind
Intellect was
Waisting aweigh.
Nothing was ever gained
Except deception
In the form of a gold coin
Worn round her neck
Signifying the accomplishment
Of keeping it down.

And with that,
they labeled her
Cured.

snipped

unfinished.. but why not let some of it out..


sun glowing through petals
affixed under plastic
transparent and pressed,
dried and arranged
aesthetically, artfully,
posing...
to remind you of the place
in your novel
stifling beauty to suit purpose

snipped after blooming,
this has become
the definition of
femininity.
this practice of preening womanhood
with shears.

once wildflowers,
now, wallflowers.

reading.

how freaking cool is my job. seriously.


I'm sitting in the library with J, a kid who hasn't read in the last 5 years. he just kinda stopped reading in 6th grade when he started failing all his classes. This is his third year in 9th grade, and I really really want him to get back on track and take control of his education. We've been working the last few days, doing some simple sentences and pronunciations, and it's all coming back to him.
AND
Guess what, now he's reading- and liking it. It's slowgoing, but he's doing it. It's averaging 18 minutes for 5 pages, but HE'S READING! He keeps stopping every few minutes and telling me what he just read- in an excited way...

dude. i get paid for this.

life is good.

Sleep

She is an elusive whore-
Comes and goes as she pleases,
But rarely pleases
Me.
Sneaking in and out-
Surreptitious and cunning,
Meanwhile my mind is running
On empty.
But still I wait for her...
Seeking fruition
Of the torrid affair
I know is possible.

Sleep,
how I long to be
your bitch.

Swell

My resistance was swelling
held down
my mind is fading now...
I see it happening-
I've been here before.
Before
Before

My resistance was swelling,
(or at least I think it was... maybe it's rage. I'm a little unclear, or maybe unfocused... how did I get here? was it one drink or two and who the hell are you?)

Held down
by alcohol and calloused hands, rage igniting and inciting while his hands are delighting, creeping here... and there.
I'm feeling heavy and tired of fighting.
I'm almost gone- fleeting, flickering, fleeing- a trick I learned the first time...
My mind is fading now...
teetering, shifting, slipping, drifting-
I've found the intense numbing peace of empty thoughts, but soon they
Escape
me.
Spinning, slight swirling, twirling of the room, my eyes are out of focus,
then
Shattered.
I try to find my way back, but something has changed. It's becoming clearer now, and happening too fast-
Penetrating
I see it happening-
something tells me to disappear, but I don't, I can't- she is familiar to me,
ashamed of trusting, while he's lusting and thrusting...
forward

I've been here before.
not here, but here. The room is nicer this time around.
Once upon a time
this child's bed held stuffed animals that offered comfort
now it overflows with his
emerging emissions emitting the casual omission of permission.
Almost like before,
almost.

Before
There was no alcohol...no numbing peace, no
Escape.
just the cold penetration of his eyes,
his cock,
filling me up four times in six hours
not subsiding, but persisting...
the room whirling and twirling
like Van Gogh's Starry Night...
into unconsciousness

Before
I said I would never let it happen again, but here I am watching
with my own eyes this reprise between my thighs
as he whispers "Ohhh. God.", followed by exhausted sighs.
And this time I'm left with a prize, swelling, protruding, projecting.
And I can't help but think, as long as it's still my decision this sweet derision needs revision-
and just like that
Life
was sucked out of me.

pale blue

6 minute freewrite...


You are retrograde
in my roladex heart
turning back the pages
to find bruised and burned bios
of exed out exes
and one night stands
still stand heavy in my eyes
but i am spinning on your axis
i wish time moved like saturn
10, 760 days of burning stars and supernovas...
I wish I could bend time
and leave you in my arms forever.
Nothing has felt more real
than resting inside your dreams
and I am tired
from climbing your mountains
and sliding down your hills

Tonight
I awoke in a cold sweat
to find a nymph
resting on my chest
pushing her weight against
my fraility
my ears are bleeding
from a Siren
sounding off all night

I'm shivering in your sheets
but you are warming my soul
a little at a time
we're diving backwards
into a pool of love
riding tidal waves of emotion
and caged hearts being let free
I am smoking
your essence
you are looking for my heart
but it's not in my chest
you swallowed it
like Cronus
and I am blinding you
with diamond disco balls
and laser shows
but I am blind
and heartless

and I swear my soul
turned blue
the day your eyes did

block block block

i hate writers block.
especially the kind where lines of words, (wanna be poems) are forming in your head and they just sit there until you birth them onto paper... (or a computer screen) but you can't seem to do that because you have ignored them for so long that now your mind is telling you to fuck off. it's so frustrating. This is how I know it's been too long. There are so many words lingering that i can't seem to sift throught them and make sense of it all. so instead i'm thinking of assignments I've given to my students and hoping that the brain exercise will somehow alleviate the blockage... a brain enema of sorts. It's hard to say if it will work or not. If nothing else, there will exist mediocre poetic randomness...

I feel like I've just spent the last two hours writing absolute shit. I deeply desire to turn over, go to sleep and forget it all... but i can't .. the second i close my eyes the words start appearing again and then I'm stuck trying to arrange them in some kind of order. maybe that's the problem.

arrrrrrrrrrrrrgggggggggggghhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh

ophelia

Sometimes I feel like Ophelia. I'm standing in the middle of the promenade. Im counting flowers out to the rhythm of lullaby's gone by. I'm wishing the violets in my mind hadn't withered and died. The flames are licking at my skin, which is threatening to fall away like the skin of the ripest fruit. I'm trying to get people to listen to me, but the words come out backwards. And with this infinite amount of reason and god like judgment I'll lean against the railing and scream my song for the court to hear.


I wonder if anyone would fight at my funeral. Would the leaves crunch under you as you strangled the one that I gave orchids to? I can hear the heavy breathing of you against my back. I can feel the hands against my skin. Cold and metallic, grasping at my flesh and pulling me backwards into the wet dirt of my home. My home with the granite headstone. The acid rain will erode my name soon and the ivy's will call the sarcophagus their home.


There's silence in the water. Thick, inky silence.

Let me drown in this silence

And watch my flames burn the surface of your quiet contributions.

the locked ward

don't touch my hair, she screamed
as my fingers
reached between
the golden waves
and pulled out again
clutching locks
of still tight curls
in my fist,
my mans fist
compared to the size of hers,
knotted and fixed on the sheets


i relax my hand and let it roam clumsily
in awkward lumbering steps
over her paper white skin
it must feel like i'm made of sandpaper to her
my skin looks dirty
my healthy glow seems indecently diseased
in the sterile blindness of white washed walls
and steamed sheets
my throat tastes of silence
the kind that chokes you quietly
because you dare not even splutter and cough
to break it free

and I know that she's not there
that she's away
where none of this can hurt her
looking past the walls
of her tomb into the
tv lined prison walls of her head
where the reality of death blasts out
like a sing a long chorus
the whole audience can join in
where the final credits
aren't really that final
but just a break between
two episodes

blueberry peach crostada

Today is the perfect day for lounging. I started the day at Joe Van Gogh's...and somehow managed to pound out a week's worth of lesson plans. I'm starting a poetry unit tomorrow with my freshman- which is always interesting. My biggest struggle is choosing the right poems. I prefer to teach high interest poems that are engaging for at risk youth, but then I remember that my job as an educator is to be a whore to the absurd curriculum guidelines that require me to teach cheesy poems that some 70 year old conservative white person, who hasn't taught in years, reminisced on from their childhood days, while drinking prune juice and praying for a good solid shit... and so I do this mental listmaking thing where i weigh the pro's and cons of what to teach, and ultimately, I say screw the curriculum and teach what I think they'll want to learn. Because that's really what it should be about. Not some ridiculous standardized test and one size fits all approach... so I'm teaching alix olson, countee cullen, adrienne rich, langston hughes, audre lord, ani difranco, tupac shakur, stacey ann chin, william carlos williams and a few others... When I finished we were hungry so we tried to hit up the mellow mushroom but sadly they weren't open, so we retreated to our kitchen for some lunch...

We have a small kitchen. Very small. With the fridge and the oven, there's not much wiggle room, but since both are necessary accoutremonts for the kitchen and we don't wiggle in the kitchen all that often, we somehow manage. Today we had a stew with lima beans, corn, tomatoes, pinto beans, carrots, onions, garlic, tvp, and a delightful beer base. Cooking in the kitchen with Amy is a wee bit challenging, but thoroughly exhilirating. We become a well-oiled machine, moving in circles about each other; we each have our roles and places where we hunker down and chop, slice, simmer, mix, toss, and knead. We don't necessarily decide and divide these roles, it just sorta happens- without words. and I like it. a lot. My next kitchen adventure is going to be Peach Blueberry crostada. It's an open-faced pie, and well, we all know those are the best kind...

Now, we are engrossed in the middle of an iNSIDEoUT board meeting discussing dates and deadlines for our upcoming prom, benefit, lobby day and speakout. Working with queer youth is awesome, it just requires patience. Lots of patience.

We're settling in to our new place and learning to love all it's intricacies. Our first yard sale is behind us and I have shed numerous aspects of my former married life in the process which feels great. AND... we have a kick ass porch. It's the ideal porch, right on the corner of Buchanan and Green, and it feels like we're right in the middle of all the action. Our friends walk by daily and we feel so much more in touch with the outside world. It's amazing how half a block can make such a difference. And it's kinda fun living across from a church because we seize opportunities to alter the sign and let people know that "Dogs Love You"! Cause it shouldn't always be about god. It's a little longer of a walk to hit up The Federal but once the weather warms up and I don't have to fear pneumonia at every turn, it's on!



This summer is going to be amazing. There are only 161 says til Michfest, and I can hardly wait! While last summer goes down in history as the best summer ever (especially in the sense of Midtown Dickens' song- cause I lost a lot in a really good way- but man it was fuckin' worth it...) I predict that every summer going forward will be equally awesome. This summers major event will be Michfest, but you never know, we just might work in a trip to South America...


anyhow, that's enough rambling for today....

Friday night in Vienna Va...

I spent last Friday night in Vienna Virginia and it was amazing.

Partially because I'm up for any adventure that takes me to another town city state, etc... but mostly because we went to see chris pureka, nicole reynolds and lyndell montgomery perform in this fantastic little coffee shop/bar/cafe.

Chris Pureka is an amazing singer/songwriter/guitarist etc. Her voice stays with you and lingers in the best way possible. The most striking thing to me about watching her sing is how you see (and sometimes feel) what she feels in every song...even when her eyes are closed, as they often are. The anguish, suffering and heartache displayed; her soul bare-skinned and leafless, for everyone to see, in every song. It's such an intimate experience that I almost felt like a voyeur as I watched.

I think "Burning Bridges" was the most penetrating song, she even seemed to be a bit emotional as she finished singing. I can't imagine putting something so personal, so vulnerable, out there for others. Shared pain. Maybe that's why it affects so many people. We've all felt that kind of rejection and hurt and betrayal before. At least I think everyone has. I know I have, on both sides. Sometimes that song hurts too much to listen to and it's an emotional rollercoaster, especially when you are the one that has caused that pain for someone else. "I know you didn't mean to let me down/ but you let me down/ so hard" That's harsh. Those words sting, but not nearly as much as:

some fantasies are never meant to be realized at all

and some regrets could be prevented

if you read the writing on the wall

oh and sometimes you say "you know nothing can happen"

and then she leans over and lifts off your glasses

and the next thing you know you're just tangled and guilty

and you've got a head full of liquor and perfume

oh and when did you leave me

and when did you find her

and tell me is this just what you wanted...

That's salt in the wound for me. Realizing that I was living for the wrong fantasy (my socially acceptable relationship), and how all the pain and regrets could have been prevented if I had more courage then, to be who I am now. But I can't take all the blame, there were plenty of things that he knew and saw he just didn't want to accept. And then of course falling in love with someone and knowing how much that hurt him, but knowing this is me, this is what I've always wanted and I much as I respect and love him as a person, I have to love and respect myself equally.

Anyhow, I've lingered far too long on that topic...

All three are amazingly talented musicians. And pretty damn easy on the eyes. Nicole Reynolds is so petite...her small stature is nearly hidden by her guitar. her voice is sweet and delicate even when she throws out words like "bullshit" in the middle of a song. I pictured her as this tiny angelic girly girl, and while in fact she is tiny, she's femme butch all the way. Merging my perception of her appearance with her actual appearance was mind boggling... She played this song which doesnt seem to be on an album yet, but it was amazing, "Like the ocean". I had to help myself to her new album via itunes when I got home. Amy and I attempted to get a poster from Chris and a CD from Nicole while we were there but the line was forever long, so we figured we'd handle it all when we got home. Amy even sent Chris a letter and a check asking for a signed copy of her poster. I'm not sure how that will turn out, but Amy's optimistic, so I'm trying to be hopeful.

Lyndell Montgomery isn't someone I had listened to a lot, but I do enjoy her music. I listen to a few songs of hers, but mostly only those from when she was with Ember Swift. I'll probably listen to more now that I've heard her play live, that always seems to seal the deal for me... If i'm not a fan I usually become one. I hope to see at least one of these talented women at Michfest this summer... maybe all of them, a girl can dream right?

I guess that sums up last friday. From there things have been pretty crazy. We moved on Saturday. I drove out to Garner in a moving truck and got the rest of my belongings from my house out there. Then we unloaded all of that into the new place and then loaded up the truck a few more times to move from our old pad to our new pad, a staggering 1/2 block down the road. I have all my new students and the semester is off to a good start, and somehow we have managed to unpack and set up the new apartment, thanks in large part to Amy.

Last night we hosted and chaperoned a lock-in for queer youth at a church with very hard and uncomfortable floors. And, it's super cold in here. It's no wonder I found myself wide awake at 5 am and desiring to blog in an effort to keep my hands warm. The kids were great, they socialized and built a fort and ate spaghetti and played games. It was a good night. Now a few are starting to wake up and I think it's close to time for a cereal party. Fruity pebbles or Corn pops... hmmmm decisions decisions...

So now I'm thoroughly exhausted and the weekend isn't mine just yet. My mom is in twon for the weekend with some friends of hers and we'll have to meet up with her today sometime today. We're also looking forward to hearing the Homewreckers tonight at the Pinhook. Then maybe tomorrow I can devote the day to lounging around and planning for the upcoming week in school.

ashes anoint the brow,
a temple to remembering,
concealing the
cognitive crime spree...
extracting the hurt...
releasing the pain
of these days
we laid away

when we thought we had
tomorrow

hollow ghost town

I'm screaming from the hollow ghost town place that used to be my soul
I am deserted inside tonight, left behind by a well-traveled friend
Only drifters come through...
It's poppies and laudanum dreams in a too warm salon,
No four poster beds
No quiet window seat

Something is settling over me
I can't define it as loneliness
but it is a sorrow that is bigger than all other emotions in me tonight,
bigger than the list of hopes and dreams,
louder than the voices I should listen to
and deeper than any memory.
It's times like this
I wish I had something larger to believe in,
whether it's a person, an event, a faith-
It would be more fulfilling than what I have now,
Two empty hands cupped for nothing and clenched in frustration.



.

acrostics

Patiently watching the clock,
Incarcerated in a cubicle void
Counting down the seconds til she can go back to
Kicking the worlds ass... She is

Meandering through the flat, stale tasks
Enervated, seeking a slight

Uplifting thought to help her make it through the
Perils of monotony slowly destroying her being. She escapes,


Passing through time present
In her toadstool-induced state, she
Chuckles at the sweetheart words imprinted in
Kaliedoscope snapshots atop the hydrants...

Memories provide the only outlet- the only
Escape from the mundane.

Unless of course you
Partake in the fungi before work...