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.