Sometimes I dissect the
meaning of things; forget
the blushing cheeks of the
letter S, that charming sing-
song voice of C.

I do not think you know
what you are talking about.

Can’t count the distance be-
tween two charging thoughts
like high school football players
running towards each other
with a vague sense of
RESPONSIBILITY and
without reason.

evolution //
revolution //
the constitution //

We tie words together
SIDE-BY-SIDE in a string of
handsome lullabies.

I do not think you know
what you are talking about.

Only the nuance of dancing
syllables
and referenced equality –
better that than anything else

though discrimination sounds
mighty pleasant to the ears
wish it meant something
entirely different.

I don’t think I know
what I’m talking about.

Only write so that my fingers
dance, not much to say only want
to feel muscles move, hear the
sweet tune of crushing ailments
cursing what-ifs.

That terrific acting performance
done by each insecurity slipping
off of the tongue, down to my long
thin fingers with a bouquet of flowers
at the end.

I do not know what this poem
is about.

Only know what I meant to say //
but got carried away //
in the poetry play. //

Not a complaint, oh surely
this is a nod to the dreamers
who wish on the brightest star
scream nothing much into a
blank sheet of paper just to
send it off in a red dress —

Advertisements

flowers blooming

May 1, 2016

petrified petal from the flower once
grew in her mother’s womb
dipped in honey and nectar-
infused with morning dew – a treat
for the bees–

falls.
spinning in the air
like a dancer pirouettes but
clumsier
a clown in a tutu
playing slapstick for the kids.

the past is a place
filled with secrets.
it is: a snowy wonderland of lost footprints.
do not tread with caution
better to leave what’s forgotten forgotten.

Or

the petal makes landing
on ground without sound
crushed under the weight
of something.

quitting the shit

April 21, 2014

When I’m by
myself
I’m in
bad company.

That’s what
she said and
it resonated
with me so that
I sent it as a
text
to my boyfriend.

He quit
the shit
for me.

I didn’t
quit
the shit yet.

That guilt
enormous as
a brick on my
chest
pushing
down until —

Well I tell him
of course.

Everything I do
is
controlled by fear.

Everything I do
is
controlled.

The
addiction
is
real.

But
he quit the shit
for me.

I confess to him.

He forgives
me.
Must be
in love with
me.

Everything I do proves
cowardly. But

I want to stop for him.

He quit the shit
for me.

Made it
into
my poetry.

Everything I do
I do
without caution

Except for the things
that are close
to his heart.

So
I confess and
he
supports me.

Quit the
shit
and must be
in love.

This is the
happiest
poem
I’ve ever written.

Got
the sweetness
of Sunday morning
tucked
in the
palm of my hand.

2800 miles away, in my bedroom,
tucked between a long hall and the place
where my parents sleep, I see his face. I can
follow the brow line with my fingertip, long for
the feel of his skin but bump into a tablet
screen; a 21st century mirror.

I can’t remember what we said. Can never
remember what we say except that it lasts
quite long and there isn’t any touching. Oh
but promises of touches, the kind that makes
my skin tingle with excitement, the kind I write
bad poems about.

A screen, pictures and words on a screen. I
suppose that is all I am, all we are made of
anyway and the idea makes me giddy. I like
21st century mirrors, these kind of mirrors
which talk back.
Talk
dirty
to
me.
These kind with a face and a beating
heart. The kind with a past.

We make plans to meet. This
summer, oh the summer is so filled
with hope on twenty degree days like
today! I tell him I will fly to Oregon from
New York, we will make love and he will
hold me and I will crack jokes about our
day.  He tells me he can’t wait, that I am
so pretty and he likes who I am.

He likes
who
I am.

I daydream of his body. What his hands
feel like linked into mine. I picture
kissing his neck and scratching his
back. He will give me rubs. I will bite
his nose and pinch his cheeks oh I will
not let him go and why should I —-

He is sleeping in Portland, I am
on a ferry to Manhattan. Dreaming
of
his
summertime
touch,
hoping for a fairy tale.

I fucked him in my car. Drunk on something and high on something else but oh yes I wanted it. Bad, because you were not here, had left me for Italy, and we were only dating for a handful of weeks. I was expected to wait for you. Wait eight months for you.

I fucked him in my car while I waited and I fucked him in his parents shed, drunk on the cheapest vodka we could buy and he smiled when I took off my shirt and I was happy to show him.

Oh I regretted it. The moment you came home I had wished it never happened. You, with your hair so dark over pale skin and your big lips and that confidence — that confidence I loathe now but once loved. I tried to hide it from you and when it seemed I couldn’t I told you that I kissed a boy, a friend, and you made me cry but you forgave me. You fucked a girl in Italy but did not tell me and I thought you must be an angel.

Then our relationship – what a strange thing. Seems so far away to me now, so distant. How many lives do we live in a lifetime? I thought you killed me. Lost ten pounds in a week, on an already 110lb frame, and you brought me down to an even 100. I thought it was fitting, to look the same way I felt, dead and hollow. She told me everything, everything you said to her and here we were three years into it and I with a ring on my finger and you whispering promises to a 17 year old girl in New Jersey.

All those secrets you kept. All those women – the three in Minnesota, fucking Minnesota! Jesus Christ, was your goal to fuck a girl in every state? Italy! Every goddamn country, too.  I could not eat, could not breathe could not think or work on school projects. Failed a paper, skipped work, lost more weight, and you wanted me back. Oh I didn’t love myself back then, only you, and so I could not live without you, did not want a world without you.

I must have been pathetic. Took you back and was relieved. And then the drugs to forget, so many goddamn drugs. Every day, drugs and more sex and less thinking and no money for food, who needs food, never gained the weight back and I thought I looked good.

Everybody cheats. I’ve never met a man who wouldn’t cheat and me, well you know me, always need someone to touch. We broke up a year later. My friends convinced me you weren’t the one, and I was always so miserable and then there were the drugs. The drugs, which had become a bigger problem than expected. I don’t blame you but I hope you are still taking them, sniffing them, maybe you’ve moved to heroin.

Months later and here I am with a married man next to me. You are a distant memory, a bad memory but one that doesn’t hurt anymore. I do not love you, do not love to love you, do not cry because you cheat. And so here I am, a married man next to me and a friend in front. I explain to the friend why I don’t believe in marriage. Don’t want to have to be with someone, a commitment on paper, all bullshit as far as I am aware. The married man is attractive, wants me but can’t have me, dreams of what could be if it weren’t for that paper. The friend admits to cheating with a man in a relationship. Tells me he wasn’t married, just dating. I tell her it’s not so bad then.

Then I think of you.

You are so far away. So far away, that I no longer shout for the women who are stuck in the rotting hole.  No, I tell my friend it’s not so bad. I flirt back with a married man. On a long enough timeline, everybody cheats.

A poem in Oakland, CA

February 18, 2014

I dream of the roots of your
trees and green in your leaves
when I eat mushrooms.

I don’t know it until
I walk towards an edge
hoping it is a bay but, too
far in I guess, at least for a walk
in the rain.

In my daydreams, the trip
does not go like this.
Sunshine, shopping, smoking
on hillsides.

Instead I am given : grey clouds,
curled around fingertips
so that the mouth of the
ocean rains down on
my
toes.

Still, I should hope
to dance — in its
puddles! — for
just a day more.
Listen to the bangs
of raindrops as if
upon the drums of
proud
circles.

And now I am just dreaming,
again,
always doing that, always
losing track.

In Oakland, the trees
look like my mushroom
trips.
Houses melt into dirt so
beautiful.
The rain make a tap,
tap, tap.

bieber bieber penis eater

January 23, 2014

Finally!
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.

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.

October 7, 2013

I’m a very sad little bee 

buzz buzz buzz

even the flowers don’t know me

helium balloon child

September 13, 2013

The shortest woman on earth is a helium balloon.
I blew her up about a week ago for a children’s
birthday party and that damn little kid let her just
float away. Well little woman helium balloon must’ve
landed safe and found herself a man who knew what
he was doing and she got herself in the books as the
world’s smallest woman because I suppose they do not
check to see if you are made of helium and she will not
return my phone calls. I see her sometimes on morning
talk shows and I wonder if her boyfriend speaks like
a munchkin after she plants a big one on him and I
wonder if she remembers the day she was born and
who her mother is.