Nico

You are like a new embryo,
encased in a uterus,
walking around on the sidewalk,
disguised.

Your feet pushing the
pedals of your bike,
always trying to make them turn
in spheres instead of circles.

It's as if I introduce myself
for the first time, every time.
You have amnesia.
Amnesia you got when
you fell for me.

You fell out a third story window,
and for awhile
that seemed okay.

You're different
is all.
Your skin cells
are not the same ones I met
when I felt your mass
sitting next to mine,
and I didn't know you're name.

I sat down that day,
and a tiny piece of your aura
snuck out of you
from underneath your fingernail,
and landed in my palm.
From then on,
small bits of that
original ionic you
crept out, and added itself to me.

I realized that unknowingly,
my stingy soul had stolen away
the parts of you that are
most like me, and
you have amnesia.

An amnesia of us, and you
smile when you see me.
A blank white fills up
the behind of your eyes.

I remembered this
bursting with color,
but you stick out your hand,
and I realize that it's my eyes
that are bursting, and wait,
is that, there behind your wrist,
a tiny piece of me that
I lost?

Have I found it in you?
Maybe so,
but I have all of you,
and you only have a piece of me.

The problem with our love was this,
you are a teenage soul,
rolling in passion,
floating in smoke and growing in free fall.

And I am a wrinkled soul.
one that has learned to observe,
that is longing for the peace
of an eternal hibernation,
and has reached that time
when the pursuit of beauty
is more important than running wild.

When I am around you,
I feel like the worst of criminals,
and my fat soul,
like a voidfull dictator.

Sometimes I'm startled by the
plain incomprehensible chill
that rocks my hips at the joints,
that surrounds our mouths with pause,
and causes our eyes to remain open
without the need of a slight bath of blink.

Where does this chill come?
When does it land
frosty and helpless
to this common time,
this normal noon?

I can't tell you,
and you, my dear,
you cannot tell me,
but what I find is,
it's something we all wish
lived underneath our ribs,
as if in jail.

Never to be released,
never to be given
any sort of trial, but only
stuck in unsolitary confinement.

It seems this hidden morsel
is a tiny, and confusingly surreptitious thing,
and oddly enough,
too many other beings
are able to dress up like it
at more times than just halloween.

Oh to be jailed in the
smiling wonderland of
this, my portrait!
But it's a dream dear,
only a dream.

Beat It

These masquerades,
the paper trains,
the long hard winters
where our eyes forget
what it's like to feel
warm and dry.

Dry flakes of sour humor
rock the mouths of
the tawny hips,
the tattooed lips,
hipsters, gangsters,
spoon stirs the pot,
rocks the boat,
keeps it flowing
hot, soupy
and dripping,
like the endless rain
on the ferry to Bainbridge.

On a Saturday morning,
finishing my coffee cold
and my scone crumbling
apart like our lives
always are.

Dripping dry pieces
all over the heads
of children that only
wish they were innocent.

Ladies and gentlemen,
boys and girls get ready
for a heart that's
bursting because it's
rotten with misunderstanding.
Get ready for a guillotine
loaded with unrelenting
selfish ideals.

Mark it, set it,
go home, make it
to your bed at night.
Make it comfortable
make it right.
Swing it tighter,
look up higher
from the feet,
to the collar bones.
They are an arrow
to the eyes.

Match your eyes.
Pin them together
on each other, and
let the ringing
lightning flying
colored sameness
collide.

Keep me alive.
Wake me at five.
Before the painter
starts work on the sky.
Bring it round to the morning
and show me
there are still things un-ruined.
Show me there are still
verbal
herbal connections.
Organic,
good for your,
body, soul, mind, heart,
condemned head.

I know they exist.
My divine bones know.
They live in the cracks,
in the rips,
and the single pennies
waiting on the sidewalk
to bring you good luck.

My Interprative 23

Paint me pictures in words
of blinding arms on trees
that disappear into a
palate of paint
so numerous of color,
that it drips opaque into
the dirty palm of a
day old beggar waiting
behind the stars.

Transport me to an ocean of grass.
Sing to me with
the noisy vibration of the bees
and the itching smell
of seed.

Walk me by a diamond encrusted body
flowing with easy grace,
and put your hand on my belly button
to stop the endless spinning
underneath my skin.

I have faith in that,
and I will walk on the forest.
Mourning constantly
that there's no more breeze,
but quietly brushing the
wet drops off my eyebrows
in thanks that I've been given
nothing but beauty to hold close
to my chest, when everything
else is falling.

When I reach the dead end,
that waits quietly and slowly
at the finish of some
grandfather's crab apple lane,
a white porch and a
rocking chair with my initials
carved in the arm.

I will sit there,
in the back and forth,
and the world will drop off
the edge, and roll away,
with the other rotting apples.

This is a daydream that speaks
of my satiated wanderlust.
And many years need to
tick along until it becomes
a reality.

So bring me to the crawling beauty
of the tundra, and feed my mind
with that everlasting air.
Give me a long gulp of it,
so the startling faces
of the caustic masses,
the empty stomachs of
the hurtling commoners,
the moonshine few
that wait for me in the bayou,
and those that stand on the roof
of the world with their carpet of dollars,
can only feel it's cleansing freshness
until it's time to end.

Not Yet

I'm trying to drown it out.
I'm trying to stop feeling the rocks
on the edges of my eyelashes,
dragging down.
Down into the ravine.

Lately that ravine is
someone named sleep.
A jester shaking a
tambourine in my nostrils.

I close my eyes and
a journey to the center
is an acid trip of
suicide attempts and
orgasms.

Breathe the live giving
liquid into my throat.
Wake up my lungs and
allow them to lend
a hand.

We need all the help
we can get to feel.
We need all the hands we
can salvage.

To resurrect my balance,
the balls of my feet,
under which the world
turns the wrong direction.

The noise it makes,
hidden behind the wind is,
"It's not forever,
But not yet."

That caustic and hopeful
"Not yet."

Divine

I called to you.
Did you hear me
when you hovered in the oblivion.
That magenta fourth dimension?
Could you talk to me?
Or was the gravity too much?

I feel so unsure of you.
So confused about who you impersonate,
who you claim to calm with
your hazy shoulders.

I know that you are
the force behind the running
leopard that I love to
pretend only wants
good for all.

I know that you are the
esophagus of the latent
whale that causes
sands to thunder with every
calm swallow.
This is the you I can understand.

Not the you that has a sweaty
hand on the small of my back.
Not the you whose syrupy breath
flutters against my eardrums,
rumbling my collarbones from the inside.
Shaking my ribcage with silent meanings.

Not the you that is
with us when our stomachs
are gouged out with the hands
of a person who is
hundreds of miles away
and no longer is breathing.

what
who
when
where
are you?

That is the question
that will kill me.

It's Everybody's

Wrangle on harvest moon,
you're a bit more menacing
than a painting.
Just a little too sharp to be real.
Just a little too real to be comforting.
Just a little too spectacular
to be anything more than
the long awaited
expression of the world's
heavy groaning.

We need you to be.
Your orange blood,
illuminated in our retinas,
your captive caverns
calling to us gently.

Because we are tied down.
Not by gravity,
but by souls.

Souls of people who surrendered
their humanity in pain.
Souls of people who never liked breathing.

We are heavy,
and we wake up each morning,
soothing jazz,
clipping drizzle,
dim seagulls in the fog.
Wrapping our arms around
our coffee and hoping
we can forget why we must
stomp on through life.

But there are moments
when we pick up a sixth sense.
Our past haunts behind us,
our unknown future
the black hole in front.
And we remember evil.
We remember hate.

We remember that time,
when people couldn't see past
their differences,
We are assaulted by the
empty gaze of a stumbling
child with nothing.

We sit down,
because we think of our
grandfather living without
his other half.
Some of his body gone,
and we see his ready eye,
his waiting eye tilted toward
the horizon, coaxing it to end.
Life to stop.
Finish.

We are heavy with injustice,
with bruises, with sickness,
with blood; with misunderstanding,
with lonliness.

Lonliness, that we have felt
scratching at us.
This vague oxymoron,
this feeling
riding on everyone's back,
and aching of simple no one.

You say they can't know,
but they do.
They don't try,
but they could.
You waste away heavy,
and leave a pile of yourself
on the kitchen floor.

I, the heroine,
the addict, I tell you
that I waste away too.
But wake up.

The moon is there,
Your pain is laid
bare in the sky.
And it's everyone's pain.

It's everyone's.
And you can remember,
that even if their
lonliness and their
rememberings are a
different color...

They all pour together
into a giant pot of
blending, churning
race,
status,
knowledge,
gender,
preference,
belief
and they color the moon for you.

They color the moon for us all.

Clarity

Please come to me
long stranded places
of straw and foreign
birds that are the
substitute for the radio.

I will wear my rainboots
every grey day,
and my bare feet
every sunny day.
I will wear my linen dress,
it will dance with the wind,
and my body,
and no one will be there.

My bed will be velvet,
and my floor will be wooden,
and the cliffs will drop down
to greet the great grey sea.

The sea that becomes
one with my aged,
ankle dropped soul.
Quicker, every morning
that I hold my yellow mug
and swallow my coffee
and stare into the
calming expanse of another world.

Somehow, this complicated
heavy world is an elixer
that quenches every bit of fairy made
wanderlust that eats at the corners
of my purple brain.

What is there to find here?
Sea salt mushrooms,
barnacles that are the ambassadors
to our dry world.
Dry and cold, light and airy,
this paper in the wind world,
that borders the expanse of sea.

The eigth dimension
the unexplored oblivion
that clouds our minds,
and stops them.
Why do we look out at it
so goddamn much?

Because it gives us a chance.
A chance to live
without halting, without clarity.

Don't idealize clarity so much.
It is not all that it is.
It is haunting, dirty, baked and brittle.
It's cavernous.

Us Five.

We have been stuck in it.
Us five, can't be much apart.
We are stuck with hazy greatness,
that grows in the airy time
that we spend wasting away together.

We have a premonition that
we will be what we dream.
Only a small thought,
that is locked in the safe of our mind,
too valuable to be truly realized.

As time begins to spin closer and faster,
we will cast our holey nets out
into this sea of a world
and pull them in empty.

The sea is perplexing tonight,
and we don't have much,
to speak of.
But we are stuck in it,
and we stand hand in hand.
Thinking of this small thought,
locked safe in our minds.

Time in the clouds,
rolls by our windless sails,
and we begin to wonder
if we should forget it all.

We are stuck in it,
our circle of hands,
and we call out our
hard to calm faults,
and throw them into the fire
that will keep us warm,
and melt our glue.

And while we do this,
our savior creeps into the middle,
and tells us worldlessly to
cast our nets
on the other side of the boat.

As cold rain falls
and fuels our gloomy discomfort,
we almost stop to ask
what the point is.

But the soft breath of
our strange rescuer
convinces us, harder still.
And resolutely, we throw them out again,
onlt to find them stuck
in the water,
heavy with our dreams.

Palm Readings

Call me out.
You anxious, deceased
mongrels of my past.
Found in the alleys of time.
Hiding in doorways
dingy, and eclipsing
the calloused hands
of the one true
stumbling priest
left in London.

Wash them out of my
tangled curls,
and cut them gone.
Hide them, so that
the secrets, the pages
of not so delightful
happenings will never
walk again.

Didn't the world give you
a fair chance?
Of course it did.
For it does not discriminate.

It calls to us,
to hide our skin,
tack up a smile,
and never look back.

But come on, come out
you sneaking folly.
Break our legs,
and you will find that is all
you've ever wanted
to do.

So we will seep out
hatred for your perfection.
And we will fight you
over,
over
and falling over.

But who will remain
on their feet
in the end?
Who will still have
shoelaces tied and
shirt buttoned with dignity?
Oh, it will be you,
you shining scum.

But we are built
by you, our past.
And although we were
reduced to infants
by your rememberance,
We will grow up again,
to laugh in your face.
Even more handsome
than we were before.