morrissey says

January 27, 2014

I write my name on love handles
in swirls, hardly recognizable
tickling the end of a universe
leaking onto the bed sheets.

Two addicts discussing
the wisdom of

Like a cat licking her lover
who is also her brother
softening the mind, the fur
bristles rubbing the skin
the sun and the burn of day
that wakes me up sometimes.

Does the body rule the mind
or does the mind rule the body?

I don’t know. I mix up
the color of the ocean and the color
of the sky.

One is blue and the other is bluer, I can tell
sometimes where one starts and one ends
but the snow on the old dump
is more aware

Skipping rocks into clouds,
flying with the fishes
blasting kisses into space.
I am the one
who the tree trunks mimic.

And here we are, two addicts discussing
a man humming so sorry’s into misery
and mystery, still alive but dead inside
or are we faking it?

More often it seems
the air is not for breathing but
for dancing round and round
twirling skirt pulled over the eyes,
over the mouth so that
kissing the fabric is all that is left
but  better to be here
than out back

having a smoke
the schoolyard.

The hole
in the sky at night
lets the light come through
shines hallelujah
singing holy mother
this is the space
where water weeps
to air.

My heart has a heart of its own.


Writing apartment descriptions for a real estate agency
is not the best gig for a lonely soul. No, this job is not
for a soul at all but the rotting cracks that make up a
New York City sidewalk because in Chelsea, the flower
district is roaring with big eyes. They wish to see something
more than the seed they plant and getting nothing but
tourists, nothing but bored blue-collar workers or a couple
in love. Curse the couples in love.

With this two-bedroom vacation rental in Villiers, Paris
you will reach the famous greenery of Parc Monceau
just a few steps away from your door.

I am a flower stuck in the rotting cracks, typing
with green stems, which shine only to the cursed
couple and only for a little while. If you stay in one
of our New York City accommodations you will live
like a local, but only the locals who are in love, and
only for a short while.

I invited a traveler to live in my house. I hoped she would
help me see the beauty in my broken toilet, molded shower,
tiny bed and stained floors. But she was not honest, no, she
did not want to live like a local only a queen and I got a bad

Would you like to explore the famous hillsides of the
South of France? I painted a mountain like Cezanne once
in my living room and it resembled a place I see in my

With this three-bedroom apartment in the Upper East Side
you will find yourself surrounded by some of the most
influential people in the world. Here you will  fall into a
warm puddle among wilting flowers  and you will wonder
if your reflection sees through the milk of your eyes.

Thank you for joining our Vacation Rental Video Tour.
See you next time!

bieber bieber penis eater

January 23, 2014

I thought this day
would never come.
I beat the odds, the
job is done. My photo
will be front page news
on every paper, oh what
fools! — to see me in
my orange shirt, the men
will pout the girls will
flirt. Oh Bieber, Bieber,
he’s a star. He drove too fast,
he hit the bar but do not
put my love in jail – he is
just Canadian after all.

We are a part of nature – to love humankind,
is to love the earth. Oh but humans can be so
brutal. War and murder, drowning babies in
bathtubs and to kill a pup or kitten! It is simple
to see the evil in us and to differentiate.
After all, we have that word – EGO.

And so we flock to those which do not.
The kind dirt we lay on, the birds who
sing sweet songs upon morning’s breath.
We want to say, nature is gentle – oh it does
not have the EGO.

It is then we feel the sting of truth in the grass
which once held us in its arms as if born from it.

In the summer, I drove to a lake. Without a proper
way in the water I thought – to cut throw the field!
How easy it will be. And then to swim in the lake
alone and naked. How pleasant a scene!

Halfway in, the grass cut up to my knees —
burning with a passion I had never quite felt.
The earth was unforgiving after all! Oh and it
showed no mercy, did not have an EGO and
could not interpret my screams. I cannot go
this way! I must get out!

Reaching the road, I grabbed a water bottle
from the car – kissing it, oh sweet water, thank
the heavens – and I poured it down red hot

My childhood innocence of an ever-loving
goodness was broken. It was then I slipped
into existentialism — where I have stayed
for quite some time now.

Though from afar I think I can see the joke,
the joke of existence (as Huxley would say…)
there is badness in the beauty and also beauty
in the badness. They are one in the same.

And so goes the dilemma of the hippie —
always searching for something warm and
finding both hot and cold at once —
And so it goes… (as Vonnegut would say).

The only logical reaction to life
is an endless series of hypocrisy.

Twenty-five and with possibilities – Oh I must be a part of God! Over sun drenched oak trees I watch with wistful eyes and a woeful belly. It is all within me. And if absolute power corrupts absolutely I am King to the dark depths of my soul, whose villagers cry for relief. Relieve yourself, relieve yourself.

A mountain. Oh how a cliché was never so true! Bare foot in front of bare foot, seeking cracks with which to hold me. He told me it was here, to step or lose again deeper. I close my eyes. “Do not close them! You must see the path which awaits you, choose wisely and with caution.” A vision in dust, that is me.

I do not know how to pray. I did it once as a child for my beloved grandmother recently deceased, and then again for a man who was not worth it. With each cry a whistle blew and a question, who can hear me? I did not know then that ears not always listen, but the soft wind always comforts. A babbling brook suits me just fine; I would like to be its mouth.

Step by step I bounce in my cage (and what a beautiful cage is the earth!) First leaning on a small foot hole, then back into swampy water. This vast mountain leads to villages of which I have only dreamed, down here, in the swampy water. Grandma, where did you go when you passed?

From a distance come the sweet songs of my sisters, beckoning me to climb. “She is afraid of heights!” I climb another step, if only to add words to the tune and I breathe “Hallelujah.”

To cry for the lovers — I look downward now from a perched stone. Bodies bobble as if hopeful. If this were a holiday I would like to have a picnic here. The wind dances strong and brisk. My hairs work well, standing up on the skin and I laugh. It is alright to be. It is alright.

Seven years lived in swampland and now I am here – one quarter up a mountain and with a steady heart. Oh to be a part of God and without true wisdom. Perhaps it is best not to know. Such a blessing leaves endless possibilities.