Friday, July 1, 2011

children ground the kite souls
after three I knew the fourth was coming
my soul tethered
tight as soil to rock
solid as rock to core
a flighty bundle beating against the currents

denial growing beyond subjectivity
tears manifesting into bombs that pierce all humanity
sunny days can seem so distant in rolling dust
the kind that wallows beneath furniture swallowing dead skin

my flesh has lost it's taste for people
the one siders
those that give to only rob back within the hour
story makers
spinning tales around imaginary hellfire
dining on sparks
spitting heat into puss filled craters on their own bloated hearts

the numbers are playing cruel games
as hormones dance rabidly upon flesh they will soon abandon
I’ve tossed away algebra and time
gazing into the space in between things
the art of knowing nothing

Terrified of truth
folding it into layer upon layer of deceiving dogma and intellectual thought
Incessant discourse
wars of is or isn't disguising what sits within us
waiting patiently
the all silence
has no wishes
containing US
it is

my hands touch palm side
pressed together
in the only self touch that is returned fully
two hands pointed to sky
self touching self
connecting to all light
to the emptiness of interdependence

rocked into gentle acceptance
Fetal tied
the wind catching beneath glorious colors

nothing is as it seems

a kite struggling in the wind

a child gazing up


the kite held strong
by twine that binds her soul

July 1, 2011

Wednesday, June 22, 2011


I taste desperation
nauseatingly sweet
coating my tongue in fragrant anxiety
stomach churning and little white pills
sitting in the chair
every cell chanting
I need this
give. me. a. chance.
money is different (now)
more than it ever has been
I knew (then)
that I had plenty of options


joy is draining from the eyes
of every woman I have seen anywhere
at a bus stop
along the paths they run on to stay young
in lines
in waiting rooms
wringing their hands against iphones
worry has become their lover pounding them into submission
gliding over them tainting even the color of a child’s laugh

presence and space swallow
as I grab at the nothing concept of freedom
snatching at
the calm of night
awakening knowing
all is going to be alright



as it is
as the fan spins
as I listen to my own
beating through the walls

Saturday, June 4, 2011

Twinkling eyes and beating wind

Twinkling eyes and beating wind

seated on the carved stool she sorted them
spread before her on the wobbly wooden work bench
sliding them into small groupings after careful inspection

and you go here
no here
yes there

she was pleased

the soiled ones were on the far right almost absent her vision
She slid many there

those she slid to the back
the furthest away

shiny ones
bitter ones
too too tiny ones
little piles
spread there and there and there
and there

threatening early
clouds absent
the electric smell warning
the pressure
her skin
her dripping eyes

the first sounds now gatherings
as the chill was entering her legs

more she slid
little piles heaped
'til done

shutting the window against moisture sunk air
she reached top shelf by standing oh highest piled book

folded in dusty velvet
she brought down

what it was she kept up
away from common piles
safe from sorting

she released...

dancing air
and musing whispers
twinkling eyes and the sound
nothing but the sound
of the beating wind

october 2010

of another day

she snaps them
clean white sheets
the room’s heavy window is propped open and outside autumn has begun to whisper
the bed is high and she must step onto a small bed stool to reach the far corner
to press the cotton smooth
to fold the edges under
she imagines this bed differently
in candlelight
soft and etched in his shadow
but the leaves keep turning colors
as time slowly creases her skin
and these days will pass in routine
like pinning clothes in the wind
like winter’s howl and hot wooden stoves
like sweet biscuits and gravy and warm mugs of cocoa
all her desires swept through the window of seasons
her hidden aches knitted quietly into the seams of each winter quilt

October 2010

when we dare, they are summoned


edges to jump with the heartthump
eternity’s surging pulse
tumbling down mystery’s ravaged peaks


guised hunters
Sweet cherry voiced and tender eyed
All giggles and cons
With shielded shovels
Ur grave
Open and patient

Drawn to us

I ( am)
Bastille pitted
Scaling up
with newly ripped muscular halo and
Parvati incarnation power light
dark armies pant over pit edges yellow
their salivation salvation offerings desperate now
victory smells of sex to Appolyon’s eyes
yet I defeat him


Triumph is the taste of earth and flowers and the rise of inner powers
Orgasm is the honey of night runs
Love is the seeking and seeing of it all (within)

disease me

it is just a page with some markings
chicken scratch
screen of strangers
shopping mall of illusion
I don’t feel it
I don’t give a shit
it isn’t much
not dense like the music
like the words
like the used to be of everything


It isn’t much of anything anymore

when it meant it was meant good
it was tangles
high as speed
injected in veins
deep like a soul
I used to know
he diseased me
in the only way
one should

want down in between low down

I didn’t want a cure
I wanted it to kill
good and slow
I wanted to
tasting his


Leather Pouch

leather pouch

when I saw him finally
not the lines in his face
but the specks of God in his eyes
the weakness the runs from his tongue
the effort of his muscles to cover the faultering of his heart
it happened

I knew nothing but what I needed
human ripples in ponds of discontent
toned in reverence
lost in his voice
that filled these cavities of the feral souled beast
I was

freedom slides down my skin as I register
and take him in like the first time
A vision of miles away ignorance
it doesn't wound these days
that he takes in air and doesn't know me
that his steps reek of no sadness

I have a small kit that contains leather, needle, thread
to sew up what is left of my madness into a neat leather pouch
a pouch that I will shove into an empty bottle where
bitter sour remains of what I drain onto the sand will stain the leather dark

off to sea I will cast it/him
tied to tide his hold ceasing
as gentle waves salt my calves
as sunlight warms my bare back

gulls will sing their casting song
as I hum along
waving to those who await me high on the beach
ready to run to meet their arms and eyes

january 17, 2011

what "I" deserve....