Thursday, February 28, 2008


I am getting caught up, caught in, sucked up, sucked in, dried out. I fell for it, then fell over, then bent over and it was all over. Goodbye forgiveness, hello sunshine, I still feel the stubble on your skin. Move me, make me move, immobile in heart, luminous in stature, I don't make sense. Do you want to come here? Join the party. It's fun I promise.

I'm getting dissolved in the smoke, but coming up bricks. My flowers are blooming amidst the sea so powerful the sun so bright.

Give me something honest, something true, I want to see the real you. Do you even know who that is?
Note: whatever I write can be construed as fact or fiction, and as I know the reader will take the words however they so choose, so whether you believe it is true or not is completely irrelevant to if it actually is. Writing for me is an amalgamation of things expressed.

Sunday, February 17, 2008

For the misguided mishaps misleading me to you

i- yes, please

I want, but can't have.
I look, but can't see.
I wait for you in an empty room and my mind is boiling with thoughts of your erotic incantations. Your talent and intelligence seduced me. "Oh, you're a silly girl", the ghost whispers. I ignore the ghost, but know he is right.

I am in love with a mirage. But doesn't it feel good? Dreams have always been better than reality. I WANT HIM. Desire has never burned so bright, or more pathetic in its luminescence.

ii- no, thank you
I messed up. I made a mistake. It wasn't there, it was never there, I conjured it up in my head, till I believed it was real. They are laughing, an orchestra of laughs, caucophony of insults playing their sad melody, and I smile, smiling, spewing forced glee. My makeup runs down my face while I am crying, but with a grin so big the Cheshire cat is jealous. How could something so real, be so fake?

iii- maybe
maybe I would.
maybe I wouldn't.
maybe mocks the meaning by teatering on a see-saw.
he said maybe. How could my yes, resort a resounding maybe?
maybe waits and waits.
The jeapordy song plays.
Alex Trebec is getting older.
Maybe I should find something else to do.

Thursday, February 14, 2008


Anne Sexton is my poetic lover.

The Kiss

My mouth blooms like a cut.I've been wronged all year, tedious nights, nothing but rough elbows in them and delicate boxes of Kleenex calling cry baby cry baby , you fool!Before today my body was useless.Now it's tearing at its square corners.It's tearing old Mary's garments off, knot by knot and see -- Now it's shot full of these electric bolts.Zing! A resurrection!Once it was a boat, quite wooden and with no business, no salt water under it and in need of some paint. It was no more than a group of boards. But you hoisted her, rigged her.She's been elected.My nerves are turned on. I hear them like musical instruments. Where there was silence the drums, the strings are incurably playing. You did this.Pure genius at work. Darling, the composer has stepped into fire.

The Fury of Cocks

There they are drooping over the breakfast plates, angel-like, folding in their sad wing, animal sad, and only the night before there they were playing the banjo. Once more the day's light comes with its immense sun, its mother trucks, its engines of amputation. Whereas last night the cock knew its way home, as stiff as a hammer, battering in with all its awful power. That theater. Today it is tender, a small bird, as soft as a baby's hand. She is the house. He is the steeple. When they fuck they are God. When they break away they are God. When they snore they are God. In the morning thet butter the toast. They don't say much. They are still God. All the cocks of the world are God, blooming, blooming, blooming into the sweet blood of woman.

When man enters woman

When man,
enters woman,
like the surf biting the shore,
again and again,
and the woman opens her mouth with pleasure
and her teeth gleam
like the alphabet,
Logos appears milking a star,
and the man
inside of woman
ties a knot
so that they will
never again be separate
and the woman
climbs into a flower
and swallows its stem
and Logos appears
and unleashes their rivers.
This man,
this woman
with their double hunger,
have tried to reach through
the curtain of God
and briefly they have,
through God
in His perversity
unties the knot.

Tuesday, February 12, 2008

I am not them

I am not them, the ones who walk their dogs during the day.
I am not them, the people who shop and chat, conversing on the phone.
I am not them, the people who make love at night and drink coffee in the morning.
I am not them, the politicos with their ideas of change and thoughts of nothingness.
I am not them, the people who think they are the only ones.
I am not them, those who think intelligence is worthless.
I am not them, the talkers and the walkers with nothing behind it.
I am not them, the people behind shams and drudgery.
I am not them, but wonder who they are.
I am not them, but deal with them with a smile.
I am not them, but they define me.
I am not them, but they make me sick.
I am not them, but can't help but wish.
I am not them, but I'm pissed.
I am not them, but wonder how they live.
I am not them, but wonder how they love.
I am not them, so loneliness follows me.
I am not them, so
I am not them, so
I am not them, so