Wednesday, July 29, 2015

i don't know who to talk to about my spirit

are you there? just checking
so... you there?
and just to be clear i am just checking

the habitually formed
little leaps of faith we take
believing there is no monster, for instance
taking freedom seriously, for instance
the viscosity of the soul, for certain

if to make whole a belief is what is termed faith,
wholeness is a terribly expensive concept
think food and gemstones
the cost of a good limb
the toll of a total embrace
is devastating

you are crushed
low to the ground
where the dust of other spirits collects
and calcifies, mummy dust

your limbs are downright prophetic
told the world a shrug
the world said, "but, embrace, and you too can be whole"
"one with us"
"get down"
"with us"

do you get it?
i mean...are you there?

i'm here to say

Wednesday, April 8, 2015


knowing space, i feel for it. the device the time. i'm awake. i'm aware. i get it. i get you, kafka.
i see you sun, i want you sun, there are so many reasons i can't be with you right now.  they are all he is asleep next to me.

it is 603am

someone in the bed is so far from me that it is a question mark from above
what does it mean as further than far

i always wondered about gates and doors and locks. how do you know you have left the wrong kind of element out?  you may have trapped it inside with you. now what

now farther

when we read space it says,
i am not
lonely but
i am alone.

  the rest was there
count distance in vertical stripes because it is 603am and

the light is
with us is

a hung mood in calibrated atmospheric pressure
they call air conditioning, do you even realize how effectively you are conditioned?
not even summer and the seats are sticking to our sins

with a movement, the second hand, single tick

the sun is behind the door. i can't stop staring at the door.

Monday, December 29, 2014

you can pretend that you can't pretend

let's get rich
so we can stay cool
get past rich and cool
get to god's

passed blanker than a statue
cut through blinking light district
for figural endorsements
tip off the shadowland tourist board
coming to your

only fair fares
tickets to the soon
you will be there now
sooner than now
is already
then too

we have been coming
to this

we have been coming
to be it

we have been coming
too much

time to leave, says the elevator mirrorscape
flawlessly reflects flaws to no end
i say to no end
and don't stop
i mean don't even start
he don't speak the not-language yet
arrive to edge of the edge
and stare
say nothing louder
can't hear you yet
though you know he wants to
you can pretend that you can't pretend
but i have been coming
to the end
of this prison sentence
for ever

seamless mistress tears
stains the rear interior
tar marks on the dash
wrote you a message in a fine layered ash
smeared the verbs, feeling sentient
on the curb, knees curl
ankles deep in nuances, sentiments, micromoments spent
passive verbs for tinctures
so potent
coming up
rolled away

i seize, i slip, i steer, i stop
i seize i stop
heel brushing on the top floor
how many stories
must we tell
i'll be quiet
please be quiet please

Tuesday, August 5, 2014

narcissus moment

i stare at the bathtub, "you're empty," i tell it
but it is filled with water
no one

Tuesday, July 29, 2014


i am pink
bright blushing in the comforts of ruffles
but i don't want to be the pink one
surface is most important, especially when it isn't
i want to be desaturated, empty eyed, deadened rectangle
standing vertical on a tilting world
with a closet full of grey slips
that i stare at
nude eyed
while i never leave my nest
it is empty
we are emptied
and love can fill you up
it can hold you high
it can be everything
you be breathing clouds but love is the whole sky

you'll be clouds before the LED goes out
you'll be me and him and her and pink and blue and plant and sand and everything known to encyclopedic man pedantic man, discreetly tune to nature, only tuning in discreetly, for forgetting is a trick that only man gets and forgets the best, you don't need my words you know better you know better
than most can guess
i'll kiss
eye lid

closest colors to the night sky is a black fax to god it says hi-
ya whats up
did you get my last message abt wanting 2 die
srry bout that i was 2 tired
u kno?
god faxes back, "yeah i got that. weird i thought u, like, worshiped beauty or w/e.  i was kinda pissed @ U.  wtf bitch?!?  why u don't know i got some 4 u 2?  quit that thick shit."

Tuesday, June 3, 2014


i woke up in the shower, ginger candy on my tongue
"how long has that been there," i thought,
failing to wonder how long i have been in the shower

the water on my eyes
the mesmerizing light and all of it dissipating subserviant death particles
i'm doomed.
but that is selfish, okay:
we are doomed.

if they ever look, oh lord, if they even peak
it's over
the hiding,
the runing,
the talking, until what is want is heard and i go quiet again
the doneness

i woke in that dress.  the same dress i wore to the funeral and to the BBQ the day after that, but i didn't care much until i woke in that dress, to word of a brand new death.  OD.  pieces of it floating to my waking. dead for hours before anyone called an ambulance.  blue flesh.  are you happy he died in his sleep?  isn't that what we all dream and pray and death dance for anyway?  asleep, on memorial day, in the arms of his lover.

he came to my home every christmas and was sad one year because everyone was wearing red but him.  my parents bought him a red shirt the next christmas.  he was wearing the shirt when in the bed, in the arms of his lover, she leaves for cigarettes, returns to turn him over, blue flesh, in the ambulance, pronounced dead.

in the shower, my colored domes are dissolving.  save them fore they drift down the drain, licking the bottom of bathtubs.  bathtubs are my sacred homeland.  pour me a refill, i rock in the tub until the waves bodies make spill out the side on the floor oh the floor is the tub the tub is the floor and i am the bathroom. i am all over the bathroom by now, me my molecules and i. 

wears me out.  where's my out?

the heat of the red sun melting our flesh blue.  the icy hot warmth of the blue gel burning our flesh red.  warming and cooling and doing it over again.  seasonal.  circular, imperfectly.  in harmony, and wet. wet enough to drown.

Thursday, May 8, 2014


I'm 14 and it is summer vacation.  I am the most in-demand babysitter in the neighborhood.  Parents fight for me with what would amount to, in an adult world, benefits packages.  The public school teacher with 3 boys will give me the answers to this year's standardized tests, single mom will make me her #2 on swank hotel beach membership, even advanced levels of refrigerator access were used to seduce my time.  I'm a master with boys.  For some reason beyond my understanding, they do whatever I tell them to.  (CLARIFICATION: They did then.)  I control them with food.  Impeccable grilled cheese sandwiches and measured ice-pop distributions.  They love that I love cartoons and swimming as much as them.  They love that I'm an in-road to the older boys of the hood, and that with additional bodies they can make whole sports teams.

This summer I pick up a new gig sitting for a single father with summer custody of his kids. With him, a brand new challenge: identical twin boys (positive nightmares).  The father is very odd, which is not necessarily bad, but in this instance allow it to carry a hefty air of creepiness.  Withheld and distant and overwhelmed to a vibrating anxiety that transfers in feeling myself uneasy most the time.  He has two Siamese cats which he keeps locked in his bedroom all day while he is at work.  I am told this is because the children are cruel to the cats.  They howl for freedom, a backing track to the clashing symphony of each day with the devious twins.  It is a strict rule: do not go into the bedroom.  As a 14 year old girl with a bit of smarts, I figure if he does't want me in there, that probably foretells I will not like whatever is to be found in that room.

As the weeks of summer pass, he warms to me.  He keeps me after he returns from work to tell me things about him self.  I do not solicit this information.  He asks one afternoon, "Do you get high?"
"No," I lie.
"Good," he replies. Then he tells me a story of nabbing his first joint in school in the 70s, smoking it alone and discovering it laced with PCP.  He tells me that a vicious dog came running at him right down the middle of his hallway, only to dissipate upon contact because it was a hallucination.  This event, he explains, put him off drugs for life.  Probably dogs too,

One afternoon, he asks if I want to hear about his passion, with one hand on a glass cabinet, the contents of which I barely allow myself to explore by sight.  I find myself right inside his weird world, and it is a world made of bones.  He has all kinds of them.  Ancient ones.  Human, animal, fossil, miscellaneous evolutionary links... He shows me albums of all his trips abroad - all to catacombs and religious monuments made out of bones.  Now I'm fucking overwhelmed.  I really don't know what to do about this adult.  About this kind of adult.  What is this kind of adult, I think all the walk home.  What will my parents think about this shit? That's for me to ponder and them to never to find out.

I return to my daily babysitting grind.  In the last days of the gig, and the kids whip around like twin tornadoes, smashing straight into the forbidden bedroom door with a wham.  I see a piece of paper float down from the corner of the top of the door, and realize it has been booby-trapped.  I carefully put it back in place.  Shuddering.  But why?

Of course, the lock on the door wasn't enough.  He wants to know if I ever even try to get in or get curious.  The howl of the cats.  The last summer I ever saw him or the twins or the bones.