For Nora, a Prequel

Robot apartments!

I am a robot.

My little brain is filled with silly nonsense

You can ask me anything

I will know the Answer.

I have the Answers.

In the traffic to Seattle

you asked me about 16th century lute music,

and I felt ashamed when I knew its history

I had to explain myself and my knowledge

(Juilliard)

And you show me off to your friends!

I read wikipedias every day so that I won't disappoint,

I never want you to be ashamed of me.

when I can't quench your thirst for useless knowledge;

there's a fear in your eyes when I say:

I don't know

so I'll study and pray that the words

will never cross my lips again

And I read encyclopedias till my

brain leaks out my eyes

and gray matter will splash your converse

and that will be the end of Us.

-08/07

found poem: "Howl"

0808: The Origin of Infection: Patient Zero

my feet are losing feeling!

stare! hard! at my telephone!

in deep concentration

willing myself! willing myself telepathy! will YOU telepathy!

to tell you will you! just! call me! you unreliable BASTARD!

Its been two! long! bloody cold! days

since I kissed your face!

-08/07

Unsung Wartime Romance

You were kind

for a time

after empty pavement pounding

battles

I epically stomped through

and over you

You were kind for a time,

granting freedoms greater

than those you took away:

a home,

a bed,

a place to rest my head.

You were kind for a time,

allowing me

the knit of the needle

a pink yarn suture

to tie my bloodied heart.

You were kind,

for a time.

And in the space of a breath,

took the knife

from your well-tailored ankle boot,

slid it between my ribs

and smiled a goodbye

from behind.

And all I can think

among these paralleled walls

is how for a time,

you were kind,

and rainkissed my face

under the overpass,

heated my nights

and picknicked steampunk effervescence.

You were kind for a time,

and I played the fool,

unwilling to see;

you were meant to be

a spun-sugar sweetness

lying soothing on the tongue,

and I on the playground,

ate a mouthful of dirt.

The Loop

there is a strange freedom

in moments of idleness:

watching time pass with

disregard

and the nothing you did today

should have been Something,

but it wasn't.

-081208

Finale

In a faraway now,
I am sleepless for you.
Waiting at a French door balcony,
trying on
my bridal woes
one last time.

In a faraway now,
it is you calling at one a.m.,
so different in every way.
You are dark, dark
darker, my halfling,
darker than she.

Fingering a ring finger
in the near now
empty where a weight
should be.
Faraway I am a beast
on wing,
all tangled snarls
and water retention
and too much snow
has closed the airport,
so my maid of honor
will never appear.

In a faraway now,
I am lost in smells
the present cannot recollect.
In a faraway now,
three days until
the happiest winter morning.

In a near now,
a distant me pleads
guilty,
if only you'd come
and bring the faraway
near.

In a close now,
in closing now,
three days
and my finger is free.

Crush

hey you golden guru beer drunk god
of skin and bone and body fat
you are beautiful
and I want to swill your body
among kelp strands and
under a calloused sky
I want to drink the depth of you
until my belly bursts
and keep you under strange stone light
among poisonflower petals
too deep to reach the night

Sunset

That was the place
where I first kissed your face
among barricade broken and wanting
and this was the lie
that we threw up to the sky
as our fathers sat worried and waiting

and I was so young
had no need for anyone
the rebel flag burning and waving
and you were so old
when you found his love gone cold
your sacrifice wasted in warning

and I held you close
as the cinders touched your toes
among city blocks blasted and curving
and we'd come so far
that they all asked who we are
so we told them wavelength and war

because we have run out of steam
and the giant robot's just become a dream
and I wake in Whitefall alone
but I remember things before we go
and I know

I know

That this is the place
where I first will kiss your face
while the bombs fall and hail to the city
and I will be the lie
God puts up in the sky
to lure you away from that corner

and you will be the star
that drives me from this car
a heartbeat waiting for a dream
and we will be the lie
God puts up in the sky
as a reminder to love beyond your means

Song for Exes of all kinds

I think that I can accept
that I was never the girl for you
but I hope when you reflect
you look well on me
as I do on you

I could've crossed an ocean
I could've crossed the town
but your house seemed too far away
even though
it was only five miles down

I think that I can accept
I was never the girl for you
but I hope when you reflect
you think well on me
as I do on you

this seems to be my ending
three thousand miles and change
I hope when you still think of me
if you think of me
at all
I hope you remember goodbye
I hope that you won't cry
I seem to remember something
as grains of sand in the hourglass
that I tipped my head my head
and you chose to laugh
and that
was always how I liked it

I think I can accept
that I was never the girl for you
I hope when you reflect
you think well on me
as I do on you
I hope when you accept
that I was never the girl for you
I hope when I reflect
I think well on me
I think well on me
as I do on you

Boston's a weary city
it snows a lot you see
closer to the ocean
closer than you looked at me
and the rain washes around my knees
as I step into the surf
and I hope when you don't see me
I'm invisible
like the rain
I'm invisible
like the trains you forgot

I think that I can accept
I was never the girl for you
and I hope when you reflect
you think well on me
as I do on you

perpendicular

I need you
to lie my geometry out
and stay congruent to
my desperate angle's shape.
To watch the fitted fog
luminesce on starlight dew,
in round perfect squares,
underneath the crust.

I need your
biting sphere to whisper
soft midnights
through each ear
and clayshape the darkness
to make me disappear.

I need your
tone-deaf fretless wonder
up and down the string
of five-seven-five
and the master's secret thunders
peer beneath your eyes.

I need your
nine-pointed starshine
to collect
in snowdropped pearls,
stowing away secrets
and softly crossing a lie,
dividing my radius
into pieces of pi
underneath the crust.

I need you to lie
within my geometry,
and stay parallel
to my desperate angel shape.

collaborative poem, week 7, spring 2008

research on the logging business
you do it for me
my dearest Mary Jane
you make me feel insane,
and I can't afford
that kind of distraction;
it always rubs me the right way.
And speaking of rubbing
who decided that rubbing sounded dirty
when my mind ran away with the word
like a puppy with a bone
on a summer's day overwhelmed with joy
the sun caresses a face
long subdued by shades of gray
submissive to the lines that follow
persistent will, not to stay.
Spare me the motivational speech
because sooner or later my inspiration will deflate and
the "what the hell" effect will kick in
and my heavenly essence will kick out
windows of an effervescent soul.

saturday's rain

you are sixteen tons
of sass and silence,
your favorite letter is 'L'
for love and licentiously
and letters you wrote
to far-away neverlands
that failed to arrive.
It's a romantic notion,
your words scattered
across Siberia,
and you're infatuated
with a face on a screen.
Purple toenails
and cowboy boots,
black leggings
and grey sweater,
blue eyes and
a weary smile.
You are sixteen tons
of sass and silence,
tied to my ankles with
ribbon so red.
I can tell
so many towels from yours
hanging on that rack,
and I know your morning voice
is gravel and butterflies.
I've been here before,
to sit in the red lamp's light
and watched the pine needles dry
and fall from lack of light.
You make me eggs in the morning,
never unfertilized,
and we wonder how bodies
got to be so forbidden.
We eat off the same plate,
you are sunshine in Olympia's
utter damp,
I could kiss those rays
right off your face,
but I won't,
you need them.
(and so does this town)
You are sixteen tons
of silence and sass,
air on my ankles
and I am swimming in you.

"I can brush my teeth in both languages!"

Yes, let's.
Let's go to Spain,
and get married
in a big, fuck-all cathedral.
Let's suck Madrid
in soda water angel hairs
foreseen in gin-tonics we never
pay for.

Yes.
Let's be Parisian affairs
half-past midnight moons,
a one bedroom apartment
on the Champs-Elysees.
Let's sit in cafes in Spring,
the rain pouring misting slumbering
gently down,
wearing wide-brimmed tea hats and
questioning
about the weather in London
this time of year.

Yes.
Let's pastry in Berlin,
custard spilling on hands
ganache slipping on fingers
sticky sweet face kisses
over brunch on Sunday
when everyone else
is in church.
Long walks between
Turkish markets and Lidl,
one for kebab seasoning
and one for potato squat soup.


Yes.
Let's sunglass Morocco,
roll in the desert dust,
wide-eyed peyote visioned desert dreaming.
Let's sing the mosque oasis
through our lungs and run
each Casablancan day from start to start
screaming at the top of our lungs,
"Yanqui go home!"
because this is not Cuba;
they could still shoot
us
at any moment.

Yes.
Let's escape all facades
of the American lexicon,
let's say what we mean and
swallow the bitter pill words later.
Let's tongue trill foreign words
and stamp them on our skin,
a million visas,
"My passport is my body."

Let's be universal bribes
of bridalry
take what we want
and favors be damned --
if you can't write,
we don't love you/
and that/
is final.

shy as virgins

The last time I touched you, I mean really touched you, you were taken from me in a mess of heartstrings and betrayal. You became the miscarriage of my birth in Paris. You became elusive, you turned at my touch. I turned my eyes from your pleading, too, I am guilty. I am so guilty.

We spoke in Berlin, a little bit. An awkward conversation I broke away from when I realised that I could do nothing without tears. I handed you to the best doctors I knew; they all said there was nothing wrong. You weren't broken. You were brilliant. It was time I saw it.

It was the last time I touched you at all. Now, here, you and me, a different city, a different country. I knew I couldn't avoid you forever; you've stayed in my heart like nobody's business, tearing around, screaming, throwing tantrums, pleading with me to just see you one last time.

You were my jewel, my morning flower, my dew on the grass -- he tore you from me, he crushed you, bled you, and did the same to me.

We were taken from each other in Paris, darling. There's no doctors here, love, and these wounds are older and scarring. To fix them, they must be reopened, and I am no surgeon. It's not going to be pretty. . It's not going to be pretty, but I love you, and if you'll just... give me time, and be patient, I think I can sew us back together.

body music

shoot me up
my delirious cowboy
dredging the depths
of the dark mystery
returning home,
hat on heart and
boots in hand
shoot me up
in the depths of your delirium
mainline me in the heat
of this stillness
in this blue cooled
sweet staccato of
hips on thighs
pelvis on pelvis
shoot me up
in the depths of
early morning
with my lidded eyes heavy, my dreamer
shoot me up
with sweat and soul
caked on bedsheets
and slammed on walls
repeating and repeating
shoot me up
main line me like breakfast cereal --
cocoa puffs and mimosas
you taste like train whistles and champagne
shoot me up
with you hat on my sunrise
your tall jungle tales on my feet
your boots in my back
and your hands in my hair
main line me electronic
ten paces
high midnight
shoot me up,
let me draw you in

"Le Mixtape"

Tonight, I am
wrapped up in your smile,
far away
over freeways and post-
apocalyptic dreams
Tonight I am strumming to drums
I forgot
and missing you.
Tomorrow morning will be a
tribute to our punk-rock June.
And I will boom swagger
all down the streets of Seattle,
boom swagger all over
the sidewalks of my life.
(boomboomboom)

Post-Post-Postmodern

She knows suddenly,
how the story ends:
on the pier after dark,
the benches and filtered
hand-rolled cigarettes
under the no-smoking sign.

She knows the words
before they roll off your tongue,
before your eyes
can even betray brain's glimmer
of betrayal:
"You said you loved me."
"You said, you loved me."
"I did."

No, she knows
how the story ends,
days, weeks, even, before it
comes:
"No, you needed somebody
to help you escape
a toxicity
a wasteland
and I was your lifeline
and you're welcome."

Yes, she knows the retort
towards her back
as she walks distance increasing:
"So did you."

And she'll give pause,
for the final note of
the swan song,
the great crescendo.
She'll consider:
"I never should've let you touch me."
and
"You meant nothing."
or
"She was right, this was a game, I win, you lose, goodbye."

She'll give pause for
the fleeting rests
quarter hald eighth note lies
and settle on four full beats of her heart:
"I don't know
what
I needed.
But
I am glad
you were there."

The cigarette stamped out
the toe of her boot
and the winter rain
dewing on the navy blue coat
you've never seen before;
smells like a life she knew,
a life you feel cheated
having never known.
Wrapped in the strength
of a sea-city's winter,
with the iron will of the lonely,
she's known how
this story ended
before you ever laid your eyes
on her blessed form.

sounds you'd die to

The syllabic sound
of your name
has been echoing in me.

It starts with my footsteps,
and grows up the creaking of my knees
to the swish-swish of my thighs
warm from walking friction.
Around my back,
calling up my spine to the
thud-thud-thumping of my poorly broken heart.

Your name has been
the echo of my heartbeat
since the day I was born;
I just couldn't hear it
'til some minutes ago.

Changes

I am going to wrap your heart in butcher's paper,
under every fold I will kiss you in ink.
The pen nib will scratch at your fibres, baby,
but it's all right,
Love is Pain.

I am going to paint your lungs in oils:
red ochre, sweet vermillion and cobalt,
paint you a whore,
and let the air be your pimp.

I am going to coat your ribs in chocolate:
deep, dark, and bittersweet as your lips
in a last good-bye.

Your stomach I will let alone, it's perfect,
acidic, clenching, except for the butterflies --
I will tear their violet wings one by one
to cease the endless concerto flutter of love.

I am going to pluck your eyes,
replace them with the pink roses you see through,

The rest, your skin, your face, your bones
I will leave bare and unblanched
a seeding perfection for all the world to view.

I will depart from you broken,
and fulfilled,
Unspoiled and unsullied
save for the cracks on the discerning come to notice.

Blake's Song

William.
You and I stood and spoke candidly
before your death.
We stood on cliff's edge
overseeing the masterful slavery of oysters
in the ocean.
We spoke in monochromatic color wheels
and turned every green blade to blue steel.
Equinamity rose and you took your hand
to mine,
painted a book running up my arm.
The last sentence made a declaration of Me
as Soul's inheritor
Soul's hierarchy
and at last spelled out the meaning of ------
just as you went to again dip your brush in ink,
God's breath blew you over the precipice.
You called to me the last words,
of smoke, and vapors;
the illusions of contemporary,
but again God's breath kicked up,
swallowed your words
as a starving infant meets a wet nurse's breast,
and you were gone.
I stood for eternity,
examing a grain of sand,
God's breath returned and tried to take me with you,
but I fought it, William,
with words of spite
and words of anger.
I fought it with the newly forged grass,
among a thousand allies,
an army of Me.
I screamed. I wept against the tyranny of God,
and his tears thundered,
but my tears roared.
My tears roared waves onto shores --
the sea swelled up to meet my backside,
and struck the wind to surrender.
We stood on cliff's edge,
God and I, speaking candidly of your death.
And the hand you held,
on the arm that you scribed,
reached
up.
I quelled, I shook, but
I nary spoke a word as I stepped aside
to let it do a soldier's duty
and pushed.

Song for Wendy

Paint me in monochrome
unbeknownst to quiet smoke
and vapor lights
inside my blood
inside my bones
my marrow beyond
all reason
I am boneless
among sunflowers
I am wretched pale in moonlight
and poetry is my foreplay beyond
my gilded tongue

Mia Blanca

you are not my hips cracking
bone-crushing soul-wrenching ache
in the pit of my being
and you are not sweet harmony's forehead
pressed to mine lost
in the universal theories of music
between two girls,
you are not under my skin,
in my blood, my cravings at midnights
or my cries in dreams
you are not my pride,
my joy, or my whiskey morning's kiss.
You are not hands to the floor,
back-bruising instantaneous
wall-clutching,
you are not the force of an orgasm
when the boy next to me has
finally dropped to dream's bullets,
and you are not in my heart of hearts.
But I'm going to keep you all the same,
in the smile behind my eyes
and the rhythms in my toes,
the larynx-tearing pitch.
You will be my song,
when my voice has finally run out.

wild child

Alessandro says
I used to write wild
and I am perplexed
as if I have forgotten sex,
delved into mystery
my mystery,
the enigma of fuck.
I think William Blake
sucked the marrow from my
language.
I'm still angry.
Self-annihilation is not
the poet's martyrdom.
You lose faith in your Bard,
lose faith in your God,
and your God self-destructs,
and thus annihilates
your soul.
Or your soul's words.
I used to write wild,
blackberry bushes,
growing over fields
my agriculture and my
nothingness.

blues for eagle feather

I.
blue sky bird with speedy fingers
daughter of three
wife of twenty-one days

amateur guitar god
sweet croon blues devil
brother in chronic
brother in wine
brother in chemical cocaine
stumbling into my bed
four a.m. plastic sheeting
rusty springs tetanus creaks
spun for one more fix
begging my sister for life
(please take)
a quarter of (please take)
one
half of your stash (please
take me) home
to feathers
and hunters
and prayer unholy

dear doctor professor:
my brother fucks with a snorter and crushed powder do you think this is safe?

I am afraid of the answer.

II.
Keen
for my brother he walks with eyes in flame
hopping one foot two foot
over smoke and woodcore
from Poulsboro to
Gratton and back
to the Rossi bottle in the middle
of the sea

what shall we feed our brother
who escaped death once?
who kisses dollar bills
and made friends with the snow
who is afraid of his life
and opens his fingers to
tearing teeth and night terrors

III.
Afternoon and the wooden table
blank verse
seventies vomited all over poets
we are all part of his waking
death

brother and sister I kiss
his lips beneath a table
and my lips catch
a powder sigh

pale cheeks (in sleep)
with body's tears

IV.
Eagle Feather, Eagle Father
our mornings are peppered
with rolled up bills and
empty pens
we cough into ink

our stash is in J's bag
but our fix is nowhere to be found

God is a junkie and he sold salvation
until I murdered him
with
a kiss

tension tanka

four a.m. --
decaf green tea
you and I
woe to the table
stuck between us

my androgyne

Something is buzzing in my brain
a literary hum
portraying and waiting
beneath the sidewalks
I am pounding on my way to you.
I will lay scrawling on your velour
velvet violet encasing my fingers
in cracks
filled with pennies and plastic
and orange rinds
from Christmas past.
The smell lingers on toes
even after morning's shower.
Moon winks unscrupulously from the window
leaving me breathless,
and my androgyne spectre
leading by fingernails
drags downward into sweet deep blues.
Kenning the sun will rise,
and eyes awoken by siren's red wail,
grasped by the hair and drug to the surface
waking shore,
and carried gently by my androgyne
to the truth's sunrise.

sun corner

This morning like all morning afters
I am fading denial from my eyes
cross-country undersea submersibles
waiting in nerve sewers
for the command to leak
speaking intangible ghost bubbles
promising forevers with fingers and spit
but denying all with eyes and lips
so red
what am i to do with this silence
that hangs like battle axes
weight like wine, heavy
on my mind
and waiting for drop the queen's head
wicker basket woven in blood
the endless children of summer
parceled out in fountain packages
a dollar a piece
a dollar for a year of your youth
the old corns of winter witchery weeping
matrons of autumn barking their wares
a dollar a piece
a dollar for a year of his youth
and the infants of spring waiting wide-eyed
and soundless
little faces bloodless in fright
for thier mothers have become
those ghoulish hounds of war
and night.
what am i to do with this silence
what am i to do
with this.

not quite your birthday

you surround
my soul
and I dream
in rock and roll
pine trees
summer
breaking my skin
tear all
my bones out
I can't get back in

don't be jealous

baby quota filled today
munching cup handles and
"that's not a raspberry, silly goose!"
six years of toy cars,
where is your mother,
why is Sue nana and
why are you shopping at walmart
careful careful the hammock's gonna flip
careful, we're gonna tip
summer yard raspberry tingle finger-nip
aunties with pink stained panties
chin stretch red tuck
glasses molasses cookie afternoon
vegan cos we don't eat babies
unless they're naked
"put your pants on, silly goose!"
electronic street race car explosion
beep beep deedleedeep
auntie Jessie camera
shift

chasms

in the wake of the pace
that demanded silence
and sliced our heart-throats open
you could touch me,
or not
in the funerial sense of now,
and never
a vacuum has opened our skulls
where our larynxes lie uninhibited
but uninhabited
don't leave me now,
in the aftermath of her conquest,
with empty ears
speak again, bright heart,
and tell me a good-bye
with a flinching finality
you never meant to mean

the rising cost of postage

red and white and blue

all the primary colors 

make me think of you

I used to write you love letters

in my head

as I walked from the dreary nine-to-five

that was shoes

and retail

and consumers

and america

whole songs as I crossed the park

I used to write you love letters

electronically

as I paced small quarters

four in the morning filled with

sick ichor and black dread

remember the reason

your plane turned around halfway

over the atlantic

because

there were terrorists

the fuel lines had been sabotaged

by terrorists

I remember almost hearing your voice

in my head

"I love you. I'm frightened.

I love you. I'm scared."

our phone conversation in the morning,

from Paris, you to me,

"They wouldn't even give me a hotel voucher."

I cried because I was so glad

you were safe.

rent and wild and blue

I know america's colors

and what they've done to you

The Balcony; 0208

we are living in secret
barking at the cat in the sun
which is shining at last
and you ask if I will climb
the five hundred and nine steps again today
thank you no
two euros to cramp my legs I don't think so
not when I can wander the abandoned tracks for free
and steal kisses from you
in the unforgiving sunset when it comes
if it comes
some days just last forever here
but we've learned that by holding hands tight enough
the nights arrive faster
and kisses are given more freely
when the lights are out

Epitaph

Hush
a whimpered whisper
'neath summer's moon
Hush
sleepless girls riding wings
hiding faces
Hush
carried across the sound
over water, under bridges
Hush
the breezes separating lovers
quieting the tang of iron
from teeth torn cheeks
sucking breath
careful not to wake
Hush
she who sits pacing
running fevers running reds
running guns without triggers
tucking hearts into bed
Hush
an unwelcome boyfriend,
his shade through the balcony door
and once whispered 'I love yous'
disperse for 'never more'
Hush
the slow rush of thumbs over breasts
the way she always left you,
wanting more

Saying Goodbye

she lays kisses like
railroad tracks
like strategic fire
burning pine and brush alike
leaving only ash and smoke and
coldness
in the wake of her tongue
he falls like rain upon
that skin, supple sweet
underneath the stomach's curve
covering her mouth in joy and secreted
glances across a crowded room

to be french

Americans have
a terrible flair for

the dramatic

which is why their
affairs
end

in ruin

Above all things
I value discretion
though like all Americans

I despise secrets

A good affair
is like a perfect cigarette

enjoyed slowly

savored

and never smoked
to the filter

the alter-egos

pulse in my feet
those tensed muscles unrelenting
from four days
on my feet
and not proper rest between
three of those.

I hate the bus because
people are always staring
and Milesly liked the attention
so does Billie but Erin
Erin just wants to crawl away
invisible and
sink in the urban wave

holding my lungs in your hands

summer's not enough
i want
to come home and lie
on your breasts with his hands
in my hair
i want
to come home and kiss
sugary sweet peach juice
from your chin
from that first bite
they keep telling me
'home is where your pile of shit is'
but home
is where my head rests
in dreams of quicksand
upon your shoulders
upon your breath

sulky midnight poem for jessie

we should both be sleeping
I forgot to ask why you weren't
my skin itches
I peel it off in sheets and ribbons
play a game with a prize
where the prize
is less scratching
my head is oriented the wrong way
I don't know if turning around will
fix anything.
petulant in my corner
I long for ice cream and blue eyes
in the crux of a conversation
complaining of the noise
street cleaners make.

the owl

if I listen long enough,
the words will come
or the rough lullaby of the port
will lull the eluded sleep
into a false sense of security
so I may consume it

But you were never a sleeper,
and I wasn't either.
who could be among these
sirens of childhood and whistle-blowing adults
with the children who stay up so late
given sugar past their
bedtime

Another beat cop changes shift
and I perch orange-lit and glorious
for all Seattle to see
gazing through glass at
three branches reaching up up up
marionette strings
anchored somewhere in the sky

oh I am my mother's child
the moon is full and she tugs
at my veins
whispering something dark and sweet
and silver-blue

050608, 0338

Nora brings me back to Flagler
a fleeting thought of brass touches
sunned skin black cotton halter dress
too many cigarettes and sunglasses

Nora brings me back to my nose and
naked in the firelight and writing
spontaneous poetry but unable to repeat

Nora brings me back to fuck odes and air laced with sex.

Nora is making lists in my head of the things I should remember to bring
lists of the people I should remember to love,
minus one:
semper fi -- do or die.

Patrick brings me around again,
'thou mayest' and playground literature theory, atop slides and wine

Patrick who has left us for structure and
I can only pray that semper fi won't
take away his precious voice or hardened hips, or
his poets fingers sifting through ash,
trying to find that piece of himself he only sees in flame

I glance at shadows of laughter gracing bedroom walls,
I stare in each of your eyes in my dreams
I sleep eat feel breathe write the language we created
and I can taste that epiphany
on the horizon once more, just beyond
Admiralty Bay, just beyond John Gratton,
just beside the robot geese.

Your faces -- all my dreams -- colliding.

poetry.
give me poetry.

Come Across the Sound

grace emulsified and patented
lips in trails cooler fire a song
penetrating fingertips leading
the way across and down
the southlands,
warm/and/wet/and/ waiting
with gunfire
with need of revolution
with traps for the wandering
spines electric, pulsing
releasing vertebrae into
the open-aired night, starless and cold
fleece just long enough to conceal
unexpected flame
so what if the whole house
burns down
timbers smoking, walls collapsing
at the cry of
Freedom
at least it was destroyed
in love

Building Your Home

the ghost symphony is
leaking
through the vents and
trickling
into my ears its aural pleasure
steaming, sticky into
my brain where it
mixes with my heart's
songbeat and floods unparalleled
down down down my
shivery shaky shoulders
(may's winter in the pacific northwest)
coursing my spinal cavities
killing calcium with long-dead
tones and rests
my hips absorb sound
like the dirt takes water
I am muddied like adobe
hard-drying and unforgiving
to the floor
I am the floor.
I am.

polaroid portrait #2

I am cigarette soluble
an ex-dystopian author
with a caffeine fix
a nicotine buzz
bloodied knees and unconvinced knuckles
fighting a cognitive dissonance
unbeknownst to intellectual override

ex-lover's tanka

not you I miss --
but sun-kissed skin
lying on our bed
the smell of old book
and spring

A Ghost's Eyes

I put away our photographs today
turned them face down
and put my back
to your memory
I said goodbye to you,
the final goodbye,
in a city far from here.
drunk.
on the phone.
but you are still with me
you followed me home.
I put your face into
the desk drawer
I put your face in a place
I can no longer see.
I threw away the key.
except I put my tax return in the same
drawer so so I'll have to break into my own.
and there will you be.
your callous, ever-loving, ever-laughing
face
staring right back at me.
I put away our photographs
I locked them where I cannot see.
But you still touch my dreams each night
and always, always,
you are staring straight through me.
(get out of my head.)
(you're ruining everything.)

the equation solved

in this syphilitic city
once my haven now
grown too small the
anarchists are baiting the capitol
the police are baiting the students
or is it the other
way 'round?
either way the story's spread
either way, the future's been set
only one thing left for this town --
'tis better to just burn it all down

Being A Grown-Up Means Nothing

come on, Iggy, don't let me down
don't tune my guitar down
one step, two step
half-step, you bastard
I lost my tuner last week
I can't do any fixin to your breaking
and you tell me
"your face changes when you
put your glasses back on --
stop hiding behind lenses"
But I won't because
I am three and I am
petulant and I want
another lung cookie, dad.
You keep telling me to make music
you keep telling me to sing songs
but you never leave me alone
for very long
and my muse prefers
nakedness,
but she's shy and turning
your back won't do --
so would you please leave the room?
and while you're gone, I will
open my bedroom window
because I am six and I am
petulant and I want
another man's arms --
my muse prefers nakedness --
to be in front of him.
And he'll dip me backwards
and buy me flowers
and teach me the body poetic
the body electric
because we are seventeen and
we are petulant and we want
to know what its like
to keen.
And when you come home,
you'll just be alone because
I'm alone
my muse prefers nakedness
and the solitude of pines these days.

Untitled; Nora Furst

Beneath the feathers
cradled in the elbow between
muscle and bone you perspire
fingernails adust
veins blued
retired to a chemical we are not
without desire and dissonance
just lacking in clarity
and a persistance of
worlds shouldered and terror
bared
tell me where were you the moment you discovered a
resonance in your rib cage
detracting from the song
in your skull tell me how
did you create emeralds from sand and
squirrells from avocados
i am no magician no musician
just a cacophany of threats and lullabies
just a retarded penguin slapping my wings against my thighs
of course there is beauty in
watching new freckles appear
tasting your boy's sweat
knock-kneed and
sweet of breath
discovering the subtle texture of your friendships
the folds in your soul
battling the red ants of your mind
an ice cube on your toes
the eyelashes of a wild mexican bull

09.05.08

speed.
speed.
the road eclipses.
I have been outsourced to my future self
and she is a driver
as I should have been.
speed.
speed.
the road.
eclipsed.

Vortex

housed in stars
your eyes shine
like the silver river
on a full moon's night
your skin in the back
of the car
I am wretched
and you are holy
I am drowning
and you are air
when you go, I cling
in a desperate sense
to your scent left
on the seat,
become a ghost.
I drift.
I
drift.

Story Song

I know that I'm a bitch
Sorry I sold your shit
but you know I did it
out of love

It was Sunday night
everything was going right
a pitcher of beer,
some friends who were queer
baseball on TV,
just above you and me
here I thought we were
oh so happy

Then you spilled the beans
just had to come clean
the tale of afternoon
it came out too soon
"The money's mine by right!"
you grabbed my arm tight
here I thought we would
give to charity

Dressed like Robin Hood,
'cos you said that we could
Knocked over the bank
(vaults are cold and dank)
The cops had finally come
and you had the gun
here I thought they'd
take you away

We made our escape
cop cars in our wake
and hid in an alley
thanks to aunt Sally
The plans had gone South,
beyond every doubt
here I thought we would
have to pay

Gtfo* car arrived
you put the gun on my thight
then you pulled the trigger
you idiot wigger
I said, "You want me to die?"
you gave no reply
here I thought it'd be
wise to pray

The cops came 'round
you threw the piece down
I hid in the trunk
and got in a fun
So then I was mad
cos you treated me bad
Here you thought you'd
sell me out

Forty minutes later
on the streets of Decatur
You found I was there
and gave me stare
I said, "You shot me in the leg!
Don't make me beg!"
here I saw you
start to pout

You said, "You're such a bitch!
You sold all my shit!
Those records were dandy,
and you sold them for candy."
I said, "Candy-coated drugs!
The ones that you love!"
here we thought we'd talk it out

So no here we are,
in the back of this bar
You're telling all our friends
the means to our ends
You're starting to shout
I'll study my stout
here I think I'll just
grab your piece

I know that I'm bitch
Sorry I shot your shit
but you were makin' me
oh so mad


*Gtfo = pronounced sort of like "g't faux"

Blake's Vision, 01.05.08

What is a stone?
it has no heart and no blood to beat
it has no body, yet retains my heat
What is a stone but cold and gray
'Till my palm it caresses,
and within does it lay
What is a stone, neither gentle nor mild
a weapon it becomes in the hands of a child
A stone knows not love, nor hate
Neither sorrow nor joy, yet decides a man's fate
The wisdom of man wrought in stone
The lives of men fought in stone
Lifeless, it rends our history useless in age
For it will live longer than my words on this page
A heart of stone does pain betray
A kidney's stone, another way
In Israel, thrown
In Ireland, plucked for seeds to be sown
What is a stone that fits no in your hand
to guide meditations from destiny's strand
Yet without anchor, what are we but lost
and left underground, too deep for the frost
What is a stone
it has no heart, nor blood to beat
but in my silence, retains all my heat

Commitment's unnecessary!
just give me your pretend
and hand me my pen
I'll write our forever
that will never ever come to pass

The Soul's Ichor

what do you want out of life?

I think I'm actually pissed off enough to answer this question. None of my usual wishy-washy complacency and indifference. What do I want?

I want to live in a city where I have a favorite dive bar and a favorite dance club because there are enough to choose from. I want to work hard for things I find rewarding -- I want my theater to be tangible and I want people to see what I do and I want it to make them THINK. I want it to make them FEEL. I want them to hate me for it and still be unable to drag themselves away.

I want to be consumed and devoured by love that is seethed through teeth like rage.

I want people to be not afraid of being angry.

I want to publish my book, damn the consequences of all the secrets being leaked, and any lies I told exposed. I want people to know my name, but never know my face. I want it to stir up enough shit that they give me a second book deal, and I can go on another adventure -- I want to go on an adventure that ISN'T fueled by love or infatuation with a person. I want to decide where I'm going by what train leaves closest to the time I get up, or go to sleep.

I want to live in Casablanca with Jessie, and lie in fields outside the city and smoke and write poetry and not have to worry about whether or not we're going to make the rent this month. I want to live in Argentina with her, on the top floor in the middle of the city, with no air conditioning on the hot winter nights, I want to spit venomous lines at each other in our fury at no one and and everything.

I want to make music when I can with people who are dedicated enough to sit down and practice with me. Who will work out the lyrics with me.

I want to add fire to this dull gray world we're living in.

Most of all, I want to laugh in an evening gown on some rich pretentious asshole's yacht; I want them all the compliment me, and tell me how fabulous I am. And I want to be laughing because of how they'll never know, never realize how cruel I am, how I'm exposing their idiocy and hypocrisy in my work. I want to publish their stories with changed names, changed dates, some changed places, with just enough truth left for them to think maybe its about them, but not be sure enough to ask me or the other people involved in that particular tale.

Ahora es tiempo para todo el mundo comer mi justicio.

This shit has flatlined, the exclamation has been uttered. Fuck you, I'm not living for you anymore. I'm living for me. Fuck your cause. I don't give a good goddamn.

an unravelling

the senses overloaded
our times are exploded
my mind is imploded
your visions of politics --
duly noted

decrease my ascension
yet another intention
the times of prevention
they're over, another menschen

the junction, no function
panties all un-bunchin'
my senses, such irk
though I know you're a jerk

call me visionary
mouths all therey
all touches are rough
so tough you're almost scary

give us the wheel
no need to feel
tell me you're meek
but all I see is weak-ness
over and done
but I finally think
this war may be won

I found I wanted to eat your heart out

I drowned in the atlantic
something I don't care to omit
fresh beating hearts --
oh you want poetry --
let me give you poetry by the mouthful in plainest English I know --
Silence silenced -- silenced silence

Boys are Dumb -- desire

I desire...?

back beat dark alley jazz/I am channelling Amsterdam and secreted thigh touches
--yes veebs is in the bathroom--
the badzimmer
but dutch
man both of you are blonde and its creeping me out
I desire touch down break down the bass touch fly touch/smoke and mirrors/the illusions of togetherness/
--yeah veebs went home to bed--
the moon is rising
I desire my ex in the reflection bdeside me/I am kickin on this beat/waiting for my moment to jam/but your lips are carrying me out that door before my chance even comes/I to my hostel and you to your hotel your girlfriend your wife your might as well be knife
If I had known them how we would end -- your cock -- never would've been touched -- you couldn't believe how I liked it rough -- secret weekend visits -- oh killer filler conversation -- finally figured out you didn't care anyway
I desire, no, require you to learn
you can't dress another girl
in Her clothes
that playtime equals passion
but passion doesn't always equal playtime.

shouted word poem

simply defenestrated, dog -- crimson obsession -- molting cinnamon -- defenestrated aneurysm -- neurotic crest caressed malicious peach -- coleslaw? simply ubiquitous -- dreamers shoelace dreams -- nautical analog -- cohesive -- cohesive -- rainbow crest cheaters simply disastrous

raw

your tintinnabulation finds me caught
underwhelmed exhausted
seeming to have lost some battle of wills
what is this chess that you speak of
some easy metaphorical mask to sneak behind
I am neither pawn nor queen
I am landmines beneath the board
where you seek logic I place danger
and you say that you will not walk away from this game
but I am explosions in the sky
I am Shock
I am Awe
something is missing in the way
we crossed paths
I am guns
you are peace signs
there's flowers for this barrel
or there would be if they'd not been devoured
by the wolves
You are late-night laughter
I am the fear beneath it
either way, the sheets are pissed upon
in light or dark
it doesn't matter
I am ten paces at high noon
you are a stroll on the beach
I am defenestration
you are a safety net
puzzle pieces that do not fit.
so just git.

be my electric cake mix

slippery slide lost to your
transatlantic psychic trills and calls
little guitar riffs that feed my insomnia
connecting without wires keeping
baristas from their beds
you are my pen that never runs out of ink
my intercontinental waterproof paper
you can tattoo me with your heart
you make me honest and I don't mind the pain

Mary, Mary

speak to her in blasphemies wild and unkempt
curls and whirls a tangle of swirls
the wind sweeping sweetly
about her face
give her a taste of the brand new place
and plant little nothings in her womb gardens
they'll never stick
for her time has slowed
and body called to radioactivity
come here and lick
the nuclear holocaust from her chin
laid bare beneath
the neon concealer
all the little lights
turned on by her smile

Clenched

Quick, the government is coming
get angry
for all we missed
shake your fist
found my lieben lost
all it is
für nicht alles
shake your fist
I won't blame you

I love drunk poems.

now we kiss beer and forget all we used to know of simple American life
for the flavors
of Germany have invaded
our blood
Amidst techno and Kolsch
we have lost our heritage
in Feist
and whatever we used to know
we have Lost!Milesly
we know not even ourselves

Confession

repent and recant
all your posessions and
feeble-minded knick-knacks
possessively playing the passive
role of the perfect little wife

repent and recant
your head will not be emptied
no savior son no savoire faire
to taste light in life
on top of the world

repent and recant
on your knees in the kitchen
the oven is still broken
no meat for your family no
not this day

repent and recant
the company you are keeping
spilling bloodfrom hildren's eyes
sacrificial knife your own
chopping board the base of guillotine

repent and recant
your sins before me
taste the forgiveness lying deep
within my cunt
the first piece you take

repent and recant
before your father returns
and sees the mess
that you've made of mother
dead women don't clean house

repent and recant
a bittersweet redemption lies
awaiting to acquit
your holy soul O my child
what have you done

fresh excerpt: Orange

We entered a café/head shop. All I could see was orange. It was like being inside a cheetoh, or a carrot. Orange. I looked at my hands. Suddenly they were orange too. Shit! Shit! I was turning orange! I went to the bathroom. It was also orange. There was no escape from the orange. I peed and washed my hands. Shit, I had to throw up. Did I have anything in my stomach to throw up? No, I hadn’t eaten at all except for the mushrooms. Would throwing up make me feel better? Maybe? I didn’t know. I went to try.

I strangled a scream of terror while bent over the toilet. It would be no good to have somebody rushing in here wondering what the fuck I was screaming about. What was I screaming about? I looked in the toilet. My puke was orange! The orange had invaded my body! It was in my veins, in my lungs, even my stomach! There was no escaping it. I washed my hands again and took a drink from the sink, then looked in the mirror.

“Conscious choice? Fuck that, Steve.” I muttered, and traced my reflection’s outline. I painted my self-portrait in trails of water as somebody else came into the bathroom. They spoke to me, in English, I thought, but I couldn’t answer. All brain functions had ceased. I was an orange zombie. I exited the bathroom, wondering how long I had been there, and found my friends at a table. I looked at Antony. “I gotta go.”

“Where?"

"Um... um... I don't know. But it's... it's too orange. It's everywhere. All over me! And I can't get it off!" I could hear the panic summoned from the depths of my stomach.

“All right, let’s get you some fresh air.” Antony took my hand and led me outside. “D’you need a cigarette?”

“Yeah.” Cigarettes were oddly familiar – I loved them, but had no idea why. And it took ages to smoke one. We smoked and talked a little. He reassured me.

“Forgive me if I’m forward, sweetheart, but I think you’re really quite frightened. And tripping balls in the middle of a city you don’t know.” I looked at him. “Are you listening?” I nodded. “Good. I’m a good guy. So are James and Antony, we’re all good guys – we’re not going to leave you. I’m going to take care of you.”

I smiled and felt a little better. The air was nice. The cigarette smoke was blue. I could feel it swirling down in my lungs and going through my bloodstream, rinsing it of all the orange. It wrapped itself around each singular cell, choked the color out of it, made it blue and red again. I watched as the orange leeched off my skin and crept wickedly back inside.

"The Bus Mall" - The Decemberists (Picaresque)

In matching blue raincoats,
Our shoes were our show boats
We kicked around.
From stairway to station
We made a sensation
With the gadabout crowd.
And oh, what a bargain,
We're two easy targets
For the old men at the off-tracks,
Who've paid in palaver
And crumpled old dollars,
Which we squirreled away
In our rat trap hotel by the freeway.
And we slept-in Sundays.

Your parents were anxious,
Your cool was contagious
At the old school.
You left without leaving
A note for your grieving
Sweet mother, while
Your brother was so cruel.
And here in the alleys
Your spirits were rallied
As you learned quick to make a fast buck.
In bathrooms and barrooms,
On dumpsters and heirlooms,
We bit our tongues.
Sucked our lips into our lungs
'til we were falling.
Such was our calling.

And here in our hollow we fuse like a family,
But I will not mourn for you.
So take up your makeup
And pocket your pills away.
We're kings among runaways
On the bus mall.
We're down
On the bus mall.

Among all the urchins and old Chinese merchants
Of the old town,
We reigned at the pool hall
With one iron cue ball
And we never let the bastards get us down.
And we laughed off the quick tricks--
The old men with limp dicks--
On the colonnades of the waterfront park.
As 4 in the morning came on, cold and boring,
We huddled close
In the bus stop enclosure enfolding.
Our hands tightly holding.

But here in our hollow we fuse like a family,
But I will not mourn for you.
So take up your makeup
And pocket your pills away.
We're kings among runaways
On the bus mall.
We're down
On the bus mall.
We're down
On the bus mall.
Down on the bus mall.
Oh ooh oh

jet stream unconcious knowledge

The controversy is in the conversion

to rise and awaken my beaten
beat body beat soul oh my
Kerouac and Ginsberg leaning keeping
that lamp in its place
broken glass the lightbulb he dropped
sticking feet bloody tracks the floor
the floor how can we forget the floor
smeared 'cross your lips the shine
mein lieben ich brauchen ein package
zu Amerika the land of foreign nationals
and currency that I have lost
dizzied from the dizzy heights
the tower we've leapt from
the waters we lap from
the Rhein where we never swam and can't
too cold it is forever too cold

sleep oh sweet sleep of blackness
forever forgetting dreams of nonsense
explosions hearts beat faster
in the dark we know each other
or rather you are trying to know me
and I will not let you I hate your
wandering hands and prying eyes
kiss my sweet American lips
that fuzzy place is coming the gray before dawn
a moment before I am aware
the rain that beats in shamed silence
the fog that pulls to faraway memories
the things I miss while I drift in
seas of dreamsand and your fingerskins
my back
no
stop
don't. touch. me.

Fresh Air

Prayer escapes me/holy lines of writ/sacrificed to poets of midnight/seeking jazz and soup and endless sex/along the old untended freight rails/of Germany/Escaping the facades of my American vernacular/lost in the sounds of PVC slick against skin and vinyl/a broken record a wrenched open heart/to do battle/against your endless fortress walls/you can touch me o please my master/touch me/performing surgeries with sharpened can tops/and kisses that belie our secrets wants/yours to shut me up/and mine for you to want her/slowly I think feel rock pray/my mouth moving to the words in the background/now we are speaking of Berlin/a cellar pub/leashed and collared shall I be yours/Nein! mein Herr when we have reached that cabaretic city/I will not sully her naivete/with our sordid games/the other one/she thinks she loves you/but I will set/her free/from all that you offer/your handcuffed playtime of red asses/and cock harnesses/she is learning/what it means to live/and at last/the air is sweet to her skin

endless trains

Wuppertal to Koeln
I am speeding home to Fabian
and the boys who don't know
what to do with me
and away from the boy who only knows
one thing
Crammed into this commuter train
on hard blue seats
fake velous covering
Now changed to green
a week later
one more train one more
dying second class passenger
Maastricht to Aachen
Aachen to Horren
Horrem to Loevenich
my beloved Sbahn!
back to the men who don't
know what to do with me
and away from the boy
who truly knows only one thing
I've left my heart
somewhere over the swollen atlantic
don't bring it back, whatever you do

Recalling Your Voice

German trains are mad
and my handwriting has
changed inexplicably.
How I long for Amsterdam
and the sweet lilt of
a London accent.
Antony -- where are you?

Drunk Letter to Ginsberg, 010208

Dear Allen

Tonight I learned that when the mask comes off, there is naught but madness and jealousy. Every German girl is prettier, blonder, thinner, and all I can think is how much I want to cover that damn boy's face in kisses. When is it my turn, daddy? When? When do I get the man they've been telling me I deserve for so long? I don't want to be second best, I won't fucking settle for that, not ever again.

Ha, I bet I won't be able to read this tomorrow.

But just remember your rule, Milesly, fall in love often, but keep two or three at the most.

It doesn't matter.

It doesn't fucking matter.

I want Michael.

Love,
Milesly

Untitled, 010208

Nobody
could hold a candle to you
Jessie.
And I may be drunk
but my secret has always been
how much
I loved you.
Germany girls can be as pretty
as they want
but nothing will compare
to you.

Every Little Thing

Without fail
every city I am in
reminds me of the two of you
scantily clad dreaming
two different points/times/places
I am still two different people
still enhanced enchanted
by the majesty of your innocence

Those eyes look at me
across time and space
so I am always seeking everything
I can never find
all the things I found
in your precious/multi-hued/faceted eyes
I couldn't be bothered to take

Forgive a simple writer for her crimes
and accept a penance
of every jazz bar entered is a reminder
of you.

crawling through space, 12.2005

I crawled through your door
Only to lie on your bed once again
In all my naked glory,
Covered only by your flesh
Salt-swept body of the sea
Plunged down upon the dirt red earth.

I rolled over to blaspheming noise
The man pounding on the door
Sitting up to find only that I am alone,
Covered by hardly a sheet
Salt-soaked body of the sea
A mere dream among white frosted fields.

thinking of home

i know that olympia wind --
it has blown across the atlantic
to hit my cheeks in amsterdam
its so cold i would think
the canals should be frozen
and i know those olympia stars --
scattered far across the sky
in the frigid german night
i am thinking of you
in the blue cigarette smoke
wondering how you've been...

My Love?

Let's go on long walks in Central Park until we find that perfect reading rock and lie in the sunshine with our literature, occasionally reading aloud the most interesting passages. Do you like Hemingway? I don't.

Then, we could get Firecracker popsicles and eat them messily without napkins and kiss the sugary stickiness from each other's faces as we search the city for the perfect refrigerator box to imagine ourselves into outer space. You can hold my hands and I will kiss your forehead, and somewhere, one of us will promise forever -- and the other will agree but not mean it.

Our respective bedrooms will smolder in the summer heat, the fans doing nothing, the windows wide open, and our bodies bared for all the city to see. "Fuck them!" You will cry, "let them watch!" Taking another swig of the tequila, your teeth on my neck, my nails in your back, another achingly quick descent into the mad passion that is the summer night.

But summer ends, dear, and autumn comes. We will be lulled into each other's false sense of security until I see you coming out of our restaurant with a tall blonde, or you see me dashing into the public library with a quick piece of Eurotrash. Words will be said, plates will be thrown, tears will be shed, and one last night of madness before we look at each other and say, "Dear God, if I ever see you again, it will be too soon."

renga senryu, 26.01.08

barmaid laughter
long and loud
another glass

old man at the bar
drains his ha'pint
and winks

what a place
for a beat
to find herself

The Wrong Bar

I want to ink myself
a tattoo of my loneliness
stamped over my heart
I am sick of English with accents
I want a nice boy from
the city to sit across
and tell me I'm pretty
or more appropriately
"Bangin'."
Amsterdam is leaving me cold
as the old folks more in
and out of the bar
A million streetlamps
no sidewalks and so many bicycles
That Ian McKellen looking old man
is staring at my young flesh
...he looks nice.
I wonder what the price of mitigating loneliness
is in this town

The Open Door

I am still Cassady somewhere in my soul
But I'll jump into Kerouac
when I board that plane
And find my wanderer's eye
Wandering
Touching faces and pleas
of please
But refrain
because I am beat
My motto is self control
and self reliance
So I do not need your body
do not want your body because
His
is at home
Waiting for me
And I love you all for your secret charms
and quiet smiles
but he is waiting
For me.
To unlock all his secrets
peer into his heart
be a peer of his heart.
And I am waiting for him to see me
as I was
all over again

In Memoriam

Oh, I am not sure
when you became another line
a sweet harmony in the bridge of my little life
But amid sweet soft jazz
and a dimly-lit room,
I lost.

All I can see is your eyes
shyly unfamiliar across the table
kindly uncaring among my past transgressions
Oh, you will never leave me
your voice sighs
I smile knowing that you will someday
because you and I both know
that all good things must end

When I step back on that plane
My heart will break
I assure you

But the piano man is playing something oddly familiar
like I have known these chords
and they have touched me
in places no man dare go
A haunting refrain some ghost from my past
has superimposed on your face

I drift longingly away back to the good months
of Persephone's shores
You are speaking again though I all hear
is Bella gently playing
as I give up on academia

Hidden beneath a piano
or a bed
this is where I stay
in memoriam.

A Song for Koeln

Deutschland über Alles
and I am satisfied
with your cobblestone streets
Blowing kisses to your cooks
through thick panes of glass
Contented under your archways
taking sixty-second portraits
of Carnival costumed festival goers
Under rain swollen skies
a city at last that loves me
and I, too, will love you
in kind
after our German cigarettes
you will ask me to stay
and sweetly
in your eyes
I shall

Whisky Mirror

When I see my reflection
the train window
the door
I see that easy smile
those heartbetraying eyes
and I am lost

I am thinking that
perhaps
she was always there
always lurking
and she can't be killed or stolen
my Milesly Rose
its to late
and I've lost myself
to her

You Didn't Know

Did you know
that I have legs and they
are covered all in little
scars that I don't know
or care where they came from?

And my hands are
just the same I am looking
all unbroken skin so soft
so smooth but the scarring
I can see

Everyone has their favorite
stories favorite body stories
and mine I could tell you
over and over

When I cried for Pablo Neruda
and did a power slide
in a skirt a mistake because
the material didn't cover
now running down my shin three inches
of skin too dark

When I went to my eval
first eval I actually attended
and I wore my slippers slipped
on the steps my poor right hand
it looks like the bat signal
broke my favorite ring too

My favorite little thing no idea
where you popped in
just 3/8ths of an inch crossing
the first knuckle indexed my left
hand and I don't know
but I stare at you and wonder

So I think back to your body stories
and all the little things
I knew how much pepper
to put in your eggs or else you
wouldn't like them but you
never even knew how I took
my tea a mistake you
should've asked oh why darling
why is it you didn't know

Missing You

and Death Cab makes me
melancholic
because I started listening
to the lyrics and they all
make me think of
you.

and Ben tries to tell me about
the comfort in the sound
but I am not hearing it

and Philipp is shouting
again in German
and I don't think
they like me

or maybe they just
don't know what to do
either

and I hate my poems
they used to be good
and now the language
is so plain
and I lost my words

and I want to write you
your letters
but I have no place to
send them

come home to me
sand and sandfleas
collect my tears in your hands
delivered on the wind

I am envying your
sixteen hour days
at least you don't have
the time to dwell
I think

and I am lonely
and I am sick
but only for the love
of you

13012008

What the fuck?
I thought we were
going to Brussels together?
I am getting
crankier
with the men in my life
all the time

Mass

I always think Sundays
are the best days for
restarting
Even though right now
there is nothing running
through my poets head but

"Crap, I have to go to Mass tomorrow."

Well, I could skip it
and spare the wrath of Brighid
but I like Gregorian chanting --
I always thought it sweet --
plus I could take Communion
and no one would ever know
(except God. And my Gods. Goddesses.
They might get pissed.)
running back to my pew
tittering in delight
how I adore flaunting
the rules
of organised religion

Cologne

with a cloud-covered sky
and the city so ancient
the train rolls by
I find myself waiting
for lightening
because the wheels
beating against the tracks
sound just like the thunder
I used to know

For Nora V

Shit, Nora,
I'm lying again
really to myself
I thought a new language,
a new culture,
a new home:
these things would be enough

Nora,
there is a ghost in my bathroom
it keeps opening the window
and turning the showerhead
before I'm ready
And you know there's a lighter
there's a light out there
And I know
in my very bones
another man is going to fall
victim
to my eyes

Cold Deutsch Stars

Three a.m. and I am outside again
Smoking my non-American cigarettes
and contemplating
your departure,
you bastard.

Beni's plant is dying
and I don't know how to save it
because my hands are white
like frost
I am not green like my mother

I bought a mask for Carnivale.
I want to wear it now
even if it doesn't hide
my minding eyes
my smile has always masked
enough

I am not playing your games.
When I grow up
I'm going to be a lesbian
because I don't know
what to do with men
anymore

Kitchen Secrets

When the eyes are alone,
the mind will wander
and thus follows the heart

One hundred years in a kitchen
juicing lime para sangria
(carrying the base root of 'blood',
I am suspicious)
Heaven knows the secrets
hidden in recipe cards
battered and stained.
How many hidden loves
have been baked into the cake?
One, ten, twelve, a thousand?

What of iron-willed restraints
secreted in soup,
and kisses like bombs
discovered between master
and maid
How many whispered footfalls,
tenderly in the dark,
how many unspoken I love yous?

You could never know
even with every interview
every book in your hand.
Like a chef, every woman
is entitled to a secret

or three.