blah blah blah

rigor mortis

There is a puddle where my personality once existed. my feet are wet, pruned really..
I'm staring at an orange on my desk in this listless computer light, wondering..can I compare any part of me to this lovely orange? really...we have nothing in common. Not even in our common decline.

I am fucked like a rock who wants to run. Resistance has honed me into Stiff Girl, superhero of I Don't Want. The little therapist stands to the side and tells the class of superhero resisters "just let go of the rope of defense and fall" We look at each other and back to her. I say, "Only if death follows, sister."

I stand with my hands tightly fisted around a box of matches in a crowd of freezing people. The light is blue and fading, everything left in view is white with snow. The lumber is there, stacked, waiting. Gas is there to pull the flames higher. Feeble attempts are made to pry my hands apart. No effort, subtle, warm, harsh or aggressive wakes me from rigid desperation.

I have watched cities of dying people in the eyes of my sad, exhausted lover, fall to the ground and turn to dust. I have watched her watch me burn her constitutions, maim her elderly and turn from the weeping lonely pain of the desperate with gestapo ease.

I have never met someone like me that I liked. And I judged them. I guess being terribly defensive, morbidly competitive limits my skill of humility.

Apparently, I really need matches.
Obviously, I am the cities of dying people and constitutions. Weeping, lonely, desperate. Devour the evidence.

I'm nearer than you think

Breath, huff. Yes this word, huff.

You are out in this darkness with me. The still looming trees, the shadows, a snapping twig. I watch you stand in the light, trying to not think about scary movies and bears.

I wait as you stop searching in the dark, peering for danger. Your panoramic hunt for the boogey slows, you head settles back to front, and then I huff.

Huff deep, hard and big, you stagger back and quiver, rattling fear. It shakes through every hole in your face.

And like the monster in the dark that I am, My chest fills, I grow another inch, longer teeth, a dirtier, amused evil.
Welcome to my back yard.

14 story fall

She popped like a tick to flame. disgusting really. She was figuring out this was a dream the I/We made up in our belief we had actually separated from God/Us/I.

You see, we really do think we're here. But we never left There. We're dreaming and no matter how hard we follow the rules of how to get along in the cyclical nature of our "so called lives", we will never reach any enlightenment other than that that belongs to our dreams.

Dreams have skin like the inside of balloons. They stretch but they never let you go.

Take another hit and think about it.

The Big Dream

They set about to wager,
will she bend or relax into the dark sky, calm and savor?

Can she find the end,
will she stumble into bliss,
or live for another forever in blight, bend, bend, continue to miss?

This dream, they play their part but it is her art
built to suit her size, her lists designed to keep her apart.

Not one but a trillion, dreams to make and waver. When will it end? Again another bet to wager.

resurrected sediment

"Hold fast youth, I warn you. Still these hot words, vile with disregard. With slight of hand I will cease your soul in this illusion you call life."

Queen, goddess released the arm of Seana and with a deep slow bow, took hold of soft, vivid garments, turned and vanished into sky, dirt, sea, wherever angry magic goes. Her power left a smell of roses burnt by Seana's fear and exhilaration. And Seana said to herself, "Yes, this is what I want, I will be her."

Seana thought of her own legacy, everyone she honored with her sweet coy love told her she was made of dust from stars. She laid in clouds of undreamed tales and filled her own heart with the grit it took to kill a magic made of goddesses and queens..

And somewhere in sky, dirt or sea, magic took it's metaphorical sword in still and fierce hand.

sticky

there's an exception to a rule i've yet to break. it's a footnote really. it says, "fumble through a bag of candy corn on a hot day and you'll wish you brought handy wipes"

out buying candy corn right. this. second.

what's happening?

What's happening, stance? happenstance i happen to stance, my stance crooked, is happening.
happening can be a stance. I take this stance as I happen as my wife to have and to hold and happen to have whilst I place this stance all over you. Don't take that stance with me you happen..stance. Posture and stance, very important and just so happens to be my non-neanderthal, upright stance in life. what's your stance on abortion? Prone posture, legs up, vacuum starts, minus one baby happens. bad girl, happen will kick your stance. Perchance, have you a happenstance?

come watch sounds of rivers in clouds

The water dripped off my hand, I held my fingers wide and really looked, really saw the rhythm pulsing under my discontent and ridiculous frenzy. This is my hand, to have and to hold with. I wanted so badly to touch her skin, to cool it. Feel the waxy softness in the water, under the desire and longing to be good again.

come to me and say, "this is all a ridiculous game and you will win, just let go..remember?"
you sit in that way and quietly ponder pains i have given you and with all your powerful will, you press on and again you say, "just let go..remember?"

yes I remember, only sometimes. I lay back in some car as you're driving on clouds and I look out the sunroof and pretend I'm falling, this is my letting go. I want to fall far enough to hit sound and press no further, stand and fall again until there is no need left.

And now, where is the water on my cool, pail hand? I want to dry slowly and care deeply without the clinging of adamant, ponderous impressions, demands and other frivolous itchy lace, waste.

In the water is a flow of time, the gurgling wet of my little world's history passes. Contemplate, my staring eyes trickle cool with shimmer, wandering muted color, spilling, mesmerized..

Set thee oh hand of mine,
into cool wet and sometimes brine,
bringing forth, stilling and forever dying,
for now everything and nothing is,
but time

not to mention

it's raining and she's listening
clicking the mouse and finding songs she can sing to me

hoist your cute ass over here and lets me
get a sniff of your sweet sweat

i love your tattoos and how your hair grows down the center
like an arrow
towards your soft mouth

i'm thinking of you
me below
your eyes and my pink toenails
flashing down at me

com'ere, lets me smell your sweet sweat,
feel your intention
not to mention
your thrust

i'll trust
i'll throw away the hardened,orderly mental conventions
to the unending bending of my body and mind
IT,
IT being 'the ability to', really is your invention

metal thin

spill blindly
low mist, unto me
hands in dirt, callous filled, soft crease wrist to arm

petal soft eyes and tremor held, quietly still
tell me soft cool breeze
i am good enough

fell fall falling still
down to knees
words on my shoulder
spot light to peer, eyes to ponder

cradling last death
nailing a frame, discord
held to a wall with metal thin wire
crooked, hatched and shell-less
it wadles away unbalanced, ridiculous

caustic banter
create a fine and throttling experience
choaking to resist the most beautiful things

my picture, i'm so proud

blunder me tilting

head to dip
slyly
low, yes lower like that
that's the response to pull from your bag-o-tricks
dear actor, come play this role on my Broadway

wet heady city day
rain in the sky thick
holding it's release
restraint
resistance
the re-words

a spill slipped from her intention
a pulling rebuff and the fall started it's decent
and my head slid to tilt
heavy in sighs and the spiral of an inevitable conclusion

any passerby knew
a clown would cry
hoist my story up, up to here
yes there, that's good

make my own divine devils and creatures of love
cast my net, my spell
my hand in your direction
ghost, i made you

belief constant, is useless
commit to castles and little black salamanders with white spots
it still doesn't mean what it means, until i blink

feel this wind and raise high
bright flow wet breeze
cars shriek and huff on
next to me, the killing pills of over swallowed people shudder by
my shoes step over and through a simple story

regardless and because
you play your part
my story, my cast
thank you for giving your hats to hold
illusions to behold
plans and resistant two-fold..
gold

all i see now my wand to whip around me
a moat to float
swim with monsters and this is fun
essential customers only

cut to the quick and step hard so i hear
turn it up or shut it
closed and damp
again with the wet heady city day

i like tag i like dodge ball
but i don't play
a witch a forest with pearls
a stick of gum with stripes and bits of horseplay
just find it, through there, yes there
it's here

The Powerful Still

sound, the silence you make
fury, wind braids through wicked trees
reach and scratch skin red, skin torn
delicious need

dreadful beautiful power
climbing, crescendo, crash
still yet stunning the buffering wind slaps my face
assaults skin red, skin raw
visual slow
trance

my heart pulled into the rip
reaching to tear the tongue
suck my breath
pulse sears through veins
tourniquet, skin red, skin coursing blue
earth shakingly still

your brown eye
and that one too
I am on your raping wind
all of this, and love in the powerful still
of your eyes
skin red, skin new
clean ripe, I am of a vicious heightened view

gods wait on corners

I stand on this corner stringing words together
remembering how they can sound, written and read
reading Audre Lorde

The thick thump of heavy death repeated itself around the corner,
peeking i am perfectly planted to own witness and credit for a grand endeavor,
a striving force completing the wilt and fray of a fire extinguished.

he kicked her stomach, boot to spine till the air came in, eyes glaze and out no more.
still, soft and dead she laid in her own sort of cocktail made of her insides out

when you folded your long narrow body, eight arms and multi purpose intent into a pose of crouch,
in between sirens and the shrieks you could hear the sound of her blood dripping out of her, off her clothes and into the beautiful puddle on the rocky pavement below,
like art she was creating again, regardless of death here she laid, despite herself,
feeding us this hideous, inspiring blood art.

all movement slowed into deep motion, intent,
carrying a purpose to empty,
the blood was the only event, the only importance to consider,
with it i spilled out of myself and into her and the dread, horror and tragedy made a clicking sound of perfection.

nestled close filling her with me, this was my perfect example to give to the history being created that perfect isn't fair and fair is irrelevant.

the pecker quandary

Why do we call cocks, peckers? Is it because they peck at holes like wood birds? It's an undignified concept, for both the cock and the person it's pecking.

And while I'm waxing philosophical, why do we call them cocks? Again the pecking issue? Pecky pocky fuckers? Who has pecking sex? Gimme a shout out.

Dicks and head. Heads, because they are little heads? I've never seen a big head that reminded me of the little head or vise versa. I would be sad for the owner of such a strange looking big head. Head, because men sometimes think with the little head?

And dick, well dick is a good one.

make like dick,
be slick,
not quick.

yes, dick is a fit,
hey, don't get lit,
it's just a sound that rhymes with clit,
sort of..

tremble, small hands, eyes to flutter

Again she is reaching some sort of peak in the story the words of this song are singing. I am aware her voice is drowning me, I cough to make sure. We the audience are witness to a 'situation' and it isn't what we came for. I pull at the cloth of the arms of my chair, bracing against the vibrations her voice send bouncing off the wood, the metal of the theater. I am rubbed, and becoming raw.

Her little hand holding the microphone, shaking to and fro, it's metal mouth open, eating her voice, spilling it out loudly into my head and her eyes are gone. Flutter, my eye lids practice applause while I unravel to this discomfort, hers and mine. She can't really mean to be this lost little girl amidst the padded seats of the curtained, echo filled theater. Everyone, just like me sees this, knows but doesn't.

Silence and applause.

I look away frightened, frightened that I may cry if I see her alone up there in front of all of us again and if I don't return my gaze to her I may never feel Real for real, again.

I'm thinking of her story in my mind, making pictures of her as a kid. Big business came and pretended to be her daddy and they used her till she had pumped out enough movies and honed herself into one of the most professional actor/singers in the country. And with all of her accomplishments by her lonely side, she built her own little story she told only to herself, it goes like this, "I can't find center." Hands on her center, you could point there, "that's center". She never found it.

So off balance and wildly amazing, she's moving around the stage again. She's singing and her eyes focus and release and the trembling, yes that trembling, subtly climbs out of her mouth and into her arms again.

The audacity defies social protocol and she checks into her own self induced ecstasy and agony. It chokes me. We sit out here scared and uncomfortable, madly invested in every word and note that comes because it's not her talent she's sharing, it's her little trembling soft hands that hold the mike that holds the sound of her guts.

I finally break, tears run, face red with release. She is a ghost in a borrowed body and nobody notices me weep because they are all worried about crying themselves.

Her body jerks along with the tremble in her small hands and her enormous voice tears at our well constructed impressions of ourselves and she is done and we roar, we clap and she says, "Thank you thank you.." She's recovered her well organized, professional entertainer voice and just before she exits stage left, just before she passes behind the curtain, I see her flutter, whispering, "small and alone".

But what I really saw was her pointing and saying, "That's center" and I find it, despite myself.

yawning in the face of your starving courage

whisper to your girl
the one who fucks you, strapped in
forget that you like holes too
just do a line of sober with a clean chaser.

worry your scars red
rubbing the past pain back into them
then cover with your Brownie Buttons of self appointed courage.

lecturing with prickly righteousness
hunting another calamity to become victim to
i smell another badge called Survivor on the way

and i will bend some more and be your bitch
my peripheral vision is catching all your posturing
go ahead
i'll be your wrong


fight the wait, the weight
starving to a stick..figure.
bone, pale your most prominent features

i'm a little bored.

force feed yourself a pez and get on with it.

frustration of sorts, designed to pass in disappointment

you, new. looks very likely to be a reconstituted, over painted version of old. my bad.

the subtle oversight, the passive response, aggressive result. examples to remind me of how little of a step i stand on at the front of the very long path to your front door.

painting your declaration with black paint on green poster board, you would only give the minimum and i would make up the rest. and now as i have made us into friends you are still painting the same old tired plan, sorry ass bendy paper and chipping paint. a bore with no effort, which leaves you with the lowly grade of D-isappointment.

and i'm sitting in a flimsy lawn chair in summer shorts being buffeted and accosted by your frigid nor'easter holding no real belief that i'm the victim to your monster. i play stupid on tv for as long as it pays the bills. but let's be honest we all know i knew.

anna nicole smith

she is dead on a floor she doesn't own and it's the last upper or downer she'll take and i saw the video of the coroner wheeling her body out of the van, covered in a crushed velvet body bag. it suited her.

i am so sad and me thinks somebody's laughing but she was a stunning goddess, fat and thin. she may or may not have been as stupid as a bag of rocks, she was my marilyn monroe.

i can meditate on her beauty and see god. i can feel her breath as she sleeps in her last stupor, and can hear it forced in and out of her during cpr and i can hear it leave, no more and done. she is now a stone, dead and her body will be cut open to find the uppers, downers or murders the scandal makers are praying for.

they will cut the beauty up and i will not receive one piece, not one morsel of skin and there will be no more pictures of her to take but the one i want most. her on a slab made into meat and beautifully dead. if only for my ability to lay peace to this notion of her silly sweetness being no more.

hortense and the baby

Hortense asked the baby, 'why for the toy?' this twisty knob to make a music and to dance lightly with much falling and a coo reminiscent of little doves and weak baby kittens.

horsely Hortense whispered her perplexity and realized babies aren't of the same fears she bricked herself in and the whispers she sent into the current of baby's ear were giggled at. Hortense, shifted and clamored, hoisting her big bad Sad onto the cart and took it to market hoping someone would take it from her

white girl

I finally got back into my neighborhood from a red eye flight from Phoenix and a two hour train ride from JFK. I stumbled into the corner store and asked for a black coffee. My favorite guy behind the counter responds, "Black, like you?" and I said, "Yes please."
He stops pouring, turns to me smiling, giving me the opportunity to replay what he just asked so i may truly relish in it's hilariosity. I almost fell over in a spaz of hysterics.

After giving him the response he expected he resumed pouring.

I suppose if you don't know me this may not seem funny. I am a member of the whitest of Caucasian Caucasians. All of my people were from frigid lands, people who were either vikings or conquered by vikings. And this my friend is why my favorite arabic guy behind the counter is a funny muthafuka.

blade

a tile floor, your feet don't fall they press, heel tip, nothing in between.
calculated, the sneaking of hidden hushed desires
creep through the empty house
searching for the shoulder to tap and say,
i changed my mind

deliver the caliber within you
this steel, cold cutting, grey
dulled by the rouge bands of years
you have collected like scars

an ounce of effort in a box
held just an arms length too far
i decide despite your confusion
boots on, walking away intent on wishing you a sharper blade


cut through your quiet limitation
silent house in the still meadow by the glassy pond
find the quake

Kali, Tiger

I went to a zoo in Leon, Mexico. The zoos are less concerned with the safety of the visitors than US zoos. This means you can get Really Close to the animals.

I was standing in front of the tigers. The female was pacing. She could hear the men coming round to the cages, buckets full of chicken, pig and other meats.

I was taking pictures and videos of her, my hands down close, inches to her face as she passed the corner. She was breathing growls and spreading her mouth into a pant and snarl fest.

Her power, like heat put me into a trance of submission. Weak with her, she sucked at me with her noise, her calls to her prey.

She walked towards me, lunged. Her mouth, her stripes and fur hands reaching for my face. The cage shook, my mouth opened, she saw me, into me and deeper than just this me. I begged for her teeth around my neck, the break and tear.

She reached through, ripped my insides, killed me and ate my soul, becoming my goddess. Deep blood to paint a picture of my death upon the dirt of her cage. But we are in the jungle and I am her Sambar deer. Kali is free and I am as wild as she.

I was reborn in her hell and strength. Alive I stood again, saying my stupid, "Whoa..." and I will never forget how she ate and I relish my death to her hunger.

Kali loved me the moment she looked and I loved the cracking of my bones and my taste is still on her breath.