Tuesday, February 22, 2011
Sunday, February 20, 2011
Death is Flighty; He Can Never Tell Me the Time. Feb.20.2011
When Death sucked on my ankles
I fell deeper into myself;
Afraid of the hole that might settle there.
An eyeless friend
who knows not what she does.
I fell onto a bench.
(On 14th st, you know)
Back on the street again
Dizzy
I sipped
Raised a ghost palm
too afraid to ask what time it was
Because they'd laugh, they would.
At my sagging eyes and pitiful mouth.
And would they have the right?
Say 'yes' but answer:
Would they have the obligation;
To make me lick the floor some more?
Wednesday, December 29, 2010
Cranberrylemonadefourlokoing on the wall Summer 2010
of very existence!
This should be enough
but sometimes it is hardly
any at all!
Amen Sister!
Shroomin' on the Wall Summer 2010
I am wanting and yearning
and searching for what but the tile floor?
To express how much I love you
but I was born without the tools
I was born as I am. And I
yearn to love the depth of you
the depth of you to press against
my own cheek.
and searching for what but the tile floor?
To express how much I love you
but I was born without the tools
I was born as I am. And I
yearn to love the depth of you
the depth of you to press against
my own cheek.
was written in March 2010
Thought: the product of anxiety
Leaves lines across your putty face
I could smooth with a smile but prefer
a never-ending grimace.
You tell me I am purple,
irrational
a bitch
a beautiful girl in a beautiful bra
But you remain unsatisfied with your definitions and
rest your anxiety on freckled hand.
Never did you look so down.
A freckled hand: the product of eternal blush gone fickle.
So he tilts his head, and never does he look so down.
So he forgets to annunciate as he mutters from his stuffy nose.
High pitched nasal insults with vocal chords gone soft.
I can love him
But I understand him better when I don't look.
So I leave the stoop and leave the state
with distance as the product of indecision.
Because if I wanted to I would have.
I may be responsible but deny blame
Because you and I both know that the woman is responsible for production
and we are what we create.
But I keep my tongue still because
I am taught to hate the shit that escapes.
Leaves lines across your putty face
I could smooth with a smile but prefer
a never-ending grimace.
You tell me I am purple,
irrational
a bitch
a beautiful girl in a beautiful bra
But you remain unsatisfied with your definitions and
rest your anxiety on freckled hand.
Never did you look so down.
A freckled hand: the product of eternal blush gone fickle.
So he tilts his head, and never does he look so down.
So he forgets to annunciate as he mutters from his stuffy nose.
High pitched nasal insults with vocal chords gone soft.
I can love him
But I understand him better when I don't look.
So I leave the stoop and leave the state
with distance as the product of indecision.
Because if I wanted to I would have.
I may be responsible but deny blame
Because you and I both know that the woman is responsible for production
and we are what we create.
But I keep my tongue still because
I am taught to hate the shit that escapes.
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