Thursday, December 23, 2010

zing

the year is almost over
what do you have to
show for it besides some more
knotches on your belt?

Wednesday, December 1, 2010

you think "i love you" is overrated

i ask him why he never left me when he had a chance to get out-
to run and hide
and he replies with "when?"
and i thought i made them all so dramatic that way, that way he would remember them
and i wouldnt have to remind him or myself, "oh, you know when i overdosed and was in the hospital" or
"when i was sleeping with so and so and told you about it" or "all those times i left and slammed your door".
am i so fucked up that i cant see that this is it?
who is giving who chances to leave?
and who is really telling the other person- "i love you"??

Wednesday, November 3, 2010

clever nights turning into holiday mornings

sometimes i wonder why i still like you
waking up in the morning with beer and cigarettes
on our, your breathe
things dont look too attractive in that light of yours.
but the holiday mornings give us something to say to each other
instead of just "bye".

Friday, October 22, 2010

unfinished-----

i'm almost out of lipstick and
perfume and soul.
and i mean the type of soul
that moves your hips when you hear music
and the type of soul that gets in your blood
when you hear people talking
passionately about something important.
and you know i always mean the type of important
like which record you listened to while making love with
him or her.
and what you were doing the night you got pregnant.
your soul is running out along with your
lolita lempicka and your ruby woo
and sometimes these things are just too
expensive to replace.

Thursday, October 14, 2010

dear holden

you find it strange that i bring my book to
bed with me.
but i know full and well that
you won't give me any passion-
 that i must make it up in my mind,
forget about it or move on to
someone else.
that even when we watch shitty television together, you sit on
an opposite chair and never look over at me.
but it's still you i wake up next to even if my dreams
are of a previous lover or a future fuck.
the books make you keep your distant because
you know their far more important to me,
that those men in those books mean
more to me then you ever will.
that it's their words that get tattooed on my body
that it's their characters that keep me company when
i'm upset and keep smiles on my face
i run to them instead of you now
and i take them to bed
maybe in hopes that you'll get jealous
and pull your body over to me
touch my shoulder in the night to see if i'm
still awake, ask if you could touch that part of me
or maybe this part..
maybe you, the writer should write your own novella.

Saturday, October 2, 2010

haruki murakami makes me depressed

the weather has gotten chilly
coldness drapes the body like a cloak.
no need for the air condition inside the house anymore.
you open the windows and let that autumn breeze blow in
and he's still there, sitting by my side, stares with returning stares
then smiles with my longing and lust- after him like a velvety trail of smoke from a
cigarette. the knowing of resistance is prominant, the sadness weighs heavy in
the chest along with the goosebumps and beauty marks by the breast.
another fall, another dark winter, another year.
and he won't leave me, we both know that.
those secrets about the winter, we know those too.
we know that with the coldness comes my sadness more and more
and that the only thing that cures it is warmth. so we wait
and maybe pray but always cross our fingers that
it skips us this season, this year, this time.

Friday, September 24, 2010

you want me to stay by your side, be happy, smile constantly, shake my fucking hips around the kitchen and be merry.

and all of this without a touch. a spine shiver. a finger sliding up and down anything any one part of me.

and i cant do it. i wont. i'm not as brave as you think thought hoped i was.

and in the end, after all the men who i hopelessly sought after to take your place failed me, it's over and this is goodbye, the end, farewell, ciao- fuck you.

Tuesday, September 14, 2010

and he said poets must always be in love but i think he forgot that he use to be one.

Wednesday, September 1, 2010

I keep writing poems about him

The leaves haven't changed colors yet, it's september-
you've changed i'm sure, more than just cleaning up your room.
added more names to your fuck list; written more songs about
your town and the one who got away, or ran.
and i keep trying to think nice things
but my heart aches and i know you know that feeling-
you've told me so.
and i keep writing poems about him
in spite
in spite
never in spite-----

Wednesday, August 11, 2010

fuck off

Sometimes, sometimes i think too much, write too much, and love too much. I splatter my walls and pages and skin with emotions. this world is always going to hold so much back, and now I want to let everything go. I tried so hard to be that person that stood in the shadows like the secret russian spy trying to hide so much from everyone but now, now everyone knows what kind of cigarettes i smoke, they know that I switched from whiskey to vodka and they know where each and every one of my tattoos are. They know I got rid of his baby, that I cried the night before in the bathtub, that I wrote it all down-that I miss you still. I write too much down and say too much out loud and whisper too many i love you's while you're sleeping. But this is me and this is how I am and what do you expect me to say about you?

Wednesday, August 4, 2010

my writing has turned into shit

taxi driver
take me here
please
so that I may
listen to the music
watch the people
get high-
on the life and
lights
and sounds
the time and the space.
taxi driver please,
make your second right
so i can wake up in
someone else's bed
use someone else's bathroom
walk down another's stairs
feel like this life is amazing with
the little rays of light creeping
in through the cracks in blinds in the house
with the beer bottles half full
half empty on the table
and the smell of cigarettes floating through out
the house.
driver, take me home
so i can shower this man's scent off of me
and the booze from the night before
so i can sit there and read a book
or  pet one of the cats
and i'll put a record on and sing those
soul songs, the ones that make you
think about last nights and the ones
that make you get up and sway your hips
and taxi can we just sit here
at the light so that i can think
about all of this for a few
take it all in
drown in the scents and the thoughts
of the him's and you's and they's and always the I's.
walkin' to work
and it's too fucking hot out
the car bit the dust finally
where the hell did my spirit go?

Monday, July 26, 2010

in dreams i dance with you

i'm too fucking scared to call,
fear of silence, of not knowing what to say or better yet
knowing what to say but
too afraid to actually say it in fear of the silence i'll recieve from you.
i love(d) you, still do
but  in a different way.
courage to speak your mind and not back down
but also knowing when to admit you are wrong is what you
have taught me.
and i was wrong about a lot of things- wrong for falling for someone who is as stubborn as i,
wrong for
romanticizing your suicidal tendencies, thinking i could perhaps save you-
finding out that you never wanted to be saved.
finding out that you never had any love inside for me..
you gave it all away to a girl who could care less about you now
you've written the songs, thought those thoughts constantly, wondered-
what she was doing-
and how you will deal with it when you have to see her face again.
and it always happens this way, the lover
falling
in love too soon-
too much-
and being too kind-
and you finally realize that your time was up and that it doesnt matter anymore that there was no love there for
you
because
you
grabbed all you could from him and he gave it to you.

Friday, June 25, 2010

empty stomach

when did we become strange collisions of beauty and violence?

Thursday, June 10, 2010

My head starts to feel dizzy like a whirlpool,  the ones where as a kid you and all your friends would walk or try to run around the outer sides creating this hurricane of dreams in the middle and then stopping and letting yourselves float with the current. When it starts to feel like this I get nervous and scared that it's coming back. That feeling where nothing matters anymore and your worthless and your life is one big fuck up and a waste of time. I know it's not, I know that I got a handle on this for once, that I can finally deem myself as having some kind of fucking potential. And it only took what? Twenty odd years to get here.

Thursday, May 27, 2010

Tropic of Libra

henry miller playing
in the background on
a tape you had made.
12% malt liquor resting in our
blood and stomachs.
you fucking me,
i fucking you, and us-
fucking each other.
i laugh to myself  and
thank the gods we're both people
who read books.

Friday, April 30, 2010

Elvis

elvis costello would have given you
a high five
if he would have seen
what happened later on that night.

Wednesday, April 7, 2010

the romanticism of suicide
has been murdered.

Monday, April 5, 2010

for its own sake

a life ruled by passion rather then reason
you hide from this, run, dive under desk in classrooms
like they taught you to do with the storms.
the fall occured, Augustine was wrong
lust still runs around the city, crosses the borders, still
smokes cigarettes.
pessimism, irony
lust does the dance of the seven veils
and tells the seven deadly sins to fuck off.

honey

I tell myself to slow down,
take it slow,
red lights usually mean stop
but the only thing I do slow
are the thrust upon your body, my fingers
tracing your sides and the kissing done
to your neck, back, and forehead.

Thursday, March 25, 2010

write poems about me

The only compliments that I
want,
I want to come from a
male librarian.

Thursday, February 25, 2010

They wait outside like it's christmas eve and they haven't
gotten their children presents yet, or their wives.
Their usually drunk, or stoned-always smelling
of the night before, of cigarettes and sweat and the outside.
They race up the stairs to the computers,
where they sit there for hours, wasting, staring at screens,
looking up websites of naked women just to have that
feeling again, inside their bones.
They've been caught touching themselves but can
you blame them?
They can't do this on the street or in the shelter,
so they come here.
They say hello to me everyday,
even when I don't want them to,
and even if they don't want to.
We've become family, almost
 like at a bar but I without a drink in my right
and a cigarette in my left.
They talk too loud and leave their malt liquor beer cans
inbetween Nin and Rimbaud, emptied but i'm sure
they've left drops on the ground, showing
respect for the forgotten writers.
They follow the girls through the rows of knowledge-
sometimes trying to show them some off the street.
Their just lonely and desperate, I tell myself.
Their just human beings.
Ones without homes and families and food and sex
The last closing annoucement is at fifteen til
and they slowly follow each other out the door
like some funeral procession.
They tell me goodnight, they wave, they look-
I think the only hope they have in them is that
tomorrow I'll be here waiting for them, watching
in a new outfit with the same red lipstick
wondering when they'll read a book.

Thursday, February 18, 2010

Let's Get Lost

The first time I heard Chet Baker
i was driving in my car on my way to meet a boy
who wasn't you,
but it was you who told me who Baker was,
and it was you I thought about as these songs
were sung,
and it was he who knew
that it wasn't him I was thinking of
as i drove around
listening to these sad songs
about the thrill being gone
and not knowing what love was
and now just yesterday i was doing the same
 minus the boy but with a man of sixty-six
on our way to the grocery store
just helping an old friend out
but thinking of a new love.

Tuesday, February 9, 2010

Answer If You Must

question if I might--
what all do you carry
in your backpack at night?
hopes and dreams-
hip hop and weed-
lust and a bedsheet?
I woke up and the sun was actually shining, the sun in my mind's window. The colors look bright again and the jazz plays free. Confessions.

I tell you that I've written poems about you. Poems that speak louder than my small voice. Poems that only mean things to me, I suppose. Poems. Poems. You promised me poems.

Waking up with bruises on my arms and legs and stomach. Those are always the best times, when you wake up and you have these bruises on you and they fade slowly from their blues and greens and yellows, slowly to let you hold on to those nights and you wake up and the sun is shining.

And you wake up. Smiles, miles, oceans full of blue eyes. Then those needles in your heart because you know, you just know- this isn't real and it's not nice and it's just something to do to pass the time.

And the time is moving at the speed of light. Slow it down with your thrust and slow it down with your hands inching themselves inside me. And slow it down just because you can.
Men dressed up as wolves
I, the white sheep
prancing and strutting
not ready for their pounce
not ready and not wanting.
Oh hunter, will you please bring your gun?

Friday, January 29, 2010

I guess it's because there's a moon out tonight

White bath robe meets me in the night
the butterflies in my stomach drown
in the cranberry juice and vodka.
it's been a year, perhaps, and
I always waited for another elevator
or a river bank
but they never showed their faces.
I never wanted to admit to myself
that I needed you, that I wanted you,
that you
actually
meant something.
But here I am
tonight -
I slip out of your window like a kid
up to no good, sneaking
to smoke cigarettes, blowing
smoke signals into the night sky
S.O.S LOVE IS IN THE AIR
... .. . .. ... .. . . . . ....
save me before I drown.

Tuesday, January 26, 2010

and ya don't stop

Sitting on my couch
bumpin' some Jedi Mind Tricks
trying to jedi mind trick you into fallin' inlove
with me.

rock n' roll

He delivers the mail to
people who don't know
his name.
in a big building downtown-
He's saying to hell with it,
I'm old and what do I have to lose?
he's moving to the philipines
to see his children
that he had when he played in
a band in the 60's-
a rock n' roll band-
where he went to bed with
tons of girls
so he's moving to go see
his children whose names
HE can barely remember
in hope that he can make up for
all of the mail
he never delivered to them.

Saturday, January 16, 2010

Open The Car Door So We Can See (for Bethany Jo)

we sat in your friends car
you got high as I took shots of whiskey
the countdown was led by drunken boys
we couldnt see their faces
but could hear them correct each other
on the numbers
"10, 9, 8- no wait!",
"6, 5, you fucked it up-"
they yelled at each other
I dont even think we cared
that it was a new year
because we missed the
countdown and kissed each other at
12:10 am
 instead of men
and as our lips met,
I forgave you for
sleeping with him
and you forgave me for
caring.

Friday, January 15, 2010

Is This Real Life Anymore?

dreaming of magic love when I can one day spend my time laying in fields full of flowers in the mountains with hills all around me reading my books and daydreaming of beautiful men who write.
The words trail out of their fingers like the slime of snails. ...............

Slowly carefully beautifully.
Leaving the past behind and finding that life gives you always bigger and better things.
Wanting to apologize and thank at the same time all the men and boys who I have left broken heartedly, selfishly, to figure things out for myself knowing full and well that I didnt need them, that they were there to make my time pass more quickly.
Understanding that once you find that person that makes you dizzy with magic, that your world gets more colorful, the lines blur, and you feel that romantic freedom. encouragement is love.

swahili love poetry

 The cold weather moves in and out of my body-
slides in my mouth, in between my legs and around my breast.
He only stays for a couple months then leaves me for someone new.
All throughout the summer I miss him fervently. I imagine his coldness wrapping itself around my body which gives me goose bumps. When he returns, im no longer worried about smoking my cigarettes inside my room- I crave the crispness of his company on my porch and he always makes my nipples hard as rocks letting the older men catch a glimpse of things they cannot have. I always wear my best coats around him. The cold weather and I.

April

Time ticks away on the clock in my kitchen and as I lay in bed writing on my yellow paper about masturbating I realize what I want more and more. I'll gather all my writings and i'll have a book done by april, someone will pay for it to be printed as a present and I will give them to the people that I hate the most. I write about everyone in the most beautiful poetic words known to man to spite you. All of my lovers have been recorded in history and have their own pages. Someone has been invading and astral projecting themselves in my dreams and whispering things in my ear. I know who you are and I would like it if you would be more creative and make it snow in my dreams or take me to italy. I'd like that a lot. My insides are twisting as blood rains out of my sex and im reminded that I could always bear children. The cherries that I bought at the store the other day are blacker than black and leave my lips stained like the blood. Do your tarot cards often and daydream mostly. You live in my world not the other way around, honey.

Trickery

I still think lovely thoughts of you. tears roll down my soft cheeks and I wish you would scoop them up for me. Days are hard and I often try and find you wondering the streets. Leave secret messages for me at the door. The door to my mind is open, always. Your veins in your arms call out my name. I just want to touch them. Or you to touch me. I still think lovely thoughts of you.

You only eat oatmeal now

heart feels heavy
stomach eats itself from the inside
my skin is like the milk in your cereal
rambling
i use to want to love you
but my mind is made up
made up of chaos
the strawberries overflow and spill outta my mouth
they place pennies over my eyes when i die
and you dont cry, you only smile.

Sometimes When

The virgin mary dangles from my neck and sleeps right where my heart is//was////willing to bet that it got dug out by some boy I thought I loved when I was fifteen. Im trying to feel better each day. Telling myself to take each day at a time- and I count them in my head as they go by..one, two...three. It works for the most part. I am still getting caught up in my nonsense emotions. Really wish I could just be done with them because those pills and those blades and that gas oven in my kitchen still beckons me. I wish I were one of those people who just hides their feelings and stuffs them under tissues and muscles inside their body, deep inside their bones! but im not and i'll never be that. I've been cursed with being an extremely emotional and passionate person. More so than you'll ever meet. If anyone knows what love is, it's me. And if I don't know what it is i'll tell you what isn't. Don't scold or scoff at me for feeling something that you can't bring yourself to deal with. It's not nor will it ever be my problem and victim am I not. Circumstances have led me to believe that I will never be loved the way that I want to. So what's the point then. Waste time. Waste feelings? Let these men stare at my body while I get dressed smoking a cigarette. Ha. What's true and what isn't? Is lying a form of artistic creativity? What about fucking? What about the way I smoke my cigarettes and gently bite the filter? What about the way I kiss his sweet mole by his mouth. The way it reminds me of a child. A sweet innocent child. Or the way his lips are so fucking pouty that all I can think about is how much blood is in them . Are my thoughts creative enough for you? Because this world doesn't seem half as interesting as it use to be. Not anymore. Not when things go bland and boring. You all call this living??

Blinding Light

I wish I could tell you somethings have changed. I wish I could hold your hand and tell you everything is alright just for the sake of saying it out loud so my brain hears it. The rooms are all dark, bare, and lonely. The rooms in my head. Where did I go wrong? What path did I take? Who ate all the bread crumbs? I've been angry a lot lately and I yell at him but only because he is the better parts of me, only because I can't seem to yell at myself and he is the closest thing to me. ME. I. She use to smile a lot. I frown on days when the sun is shining and I feel more at home when the skies turn grey and the rain floods our streets. Yes, our streets. Trying to run away from things. Trying to find new homes with more rooms to hide more baggage. Luggage. All the stupid old suitcases I keep buying from the thrift stores hoping that sometime soon I'll take that trip. I'll get on that plane and fly somewhere more scenic. Fly somewhere where they only speak french to me. Fly somewhere, anywhere, everywhere and nowhere all at once. The thoughts still collide and the dreams still haunt. The only things that have changed are my bangs, my room, and my heart.

premade whiskey and cokes.

It's almost christmas and almost a new year and what I am doing here with everything, everyone and all this nonsense going on around me. These men and these words and their eyes and their speech. I'm waiting around to think of what song to play in my car on the way home to go to sleep in my bed while I'm half intoxicated. I sat at my table the other night with my typewriter and the only sentence that was typed out was some bullshit line about winter and November and the heat warming up in my blood and the warm rush flowing throughout my sex organs. Turning on, turning you on, turn on the fan, it's Florida and it's hot here in December. Records and beats and holidaze and truth and power. Writing poems about..about my life? What have I turned into? Having dreams of writing in a one roomed apartment in New York, in the chelsea hotel, the same room that Dear L. Cohen laid his sweet head, giving head- to men, men who have meant more to me then my own father. The father who danced with me to the Beatles in our kitchen, the man who taught me to feel the music with my body and soul and just mooove with it- the man who I search for in older men with good jobs and good personalities and a certain "thing" about them. Someone who listens to good music, at least. The older men. The smart ones, the ones who have their shit together. Let me take all your records home and lay them out on my floor while I drink vodka and think of other ways to end my life, and while this is all going on, your records are sending me off to my death. my death bed, with my catholic saint candles and my love letters to all of you. You. You. The dedication to the book has been written. Who do I leave the last page to though? These men still litter my notebooks. my moleskins. The black ones that have your name written in them and that end in a year. a different notebook for a different lover. different lover for a different year. creative lying to become a better writer. writing to become a better liar. falling for the wrong kind of gentle winds. these men, these men, these leonard cohens of the world, where are you and why havent you found me lying on my floor with my catholic saint candles and my records flung around the living room waiting for you? no, maybe for my self.

When They Say Repent

Lovers lay
entertwined
and I am the sheet
they are making love
on.

Lovers I had and liked

I wanted them,
went after them,
had them; and
liked them.

Month 11

You introduced me
to Bloody Marys-
I introduced you to
November

mother may I?

I sometimes dream as does he
But mine are of you and not her
the heart bleeds the eyes run but my legs stay
here with you- not wanting to leave.
this love hurts, sometimes
more than your childhood knee scrapes.
wanting and waiting for you
to understand that my love
may not be honest or clear but it is always there.
that it may hurt and scream and cry
but it is all yours.
I swim in the oceans of your eyes
but I also try to drown myself in them
Imagining your skin is the milk I bathe in-
I submerge my entire being in, on, and around it.
wanting to breathe you in, taste you, feel you, need you-
you, who are the sun the moon and the stars on this planet
And I am the blackness of space
trying to be wherever you are
even just for half the day
my love for you doesn’t evaporate, vanish, or disappear
It stays, longs, wants, and grows more and more
the soft coo’s in my ear and the gentle kisses on my forehead
patch up my bleeding heart and I am no longer the mother mary
But your dear sweet, sweet love.

Waiting

The electric eels would slide through my veins as I was being touched. The delicate kissing that would start off slow and soon;--just like fingers warming up at your typewriter; increase with ravenous passionate bursting of lips. The vertigo that overcame my senses as I stood up,--still kissing-to walk into the other room with the bed. The other room with the bed in it that turned to colors of magic after my body had been engulfed with orgasmic waterfalls.
I had always wanted to be with a writer. Sexually, I figured they were good in bed because of the way they describe their surroundings, their own thoughts so perfectly. They made everything much more beautiful, colorful, visionary and then on the opposite side of the spectrum horrid, and uglier than anything I've ever read in my entire life. I have been with artist of all forms- intellectuals of all sorts. But the writers--the real ones who write everyday-who have to write everyday-the ones who still bang on the keys of typewriters. I wanted IT. Bad. I was of unsound mind and fantasized about relationships like NIN and MILLERS. Two writers that were feverishly in love with one another and through it all-writings-letters- evidence- of how crazed love and passion could make you.

Like being tangled in the web of a spider and wanting to escape but also longing to be wrapped up and drained of the very life that is inside of you. The people-these writers- are rare beings. Words of passion float in their blood. They write no matter the circumstance. Whether it be sun, rain, or snow, the fire rages out of the fingertips. It happens in tiny one room apartments with great views of the river. Great men with writing machines on tables in the middle of their snug rooms with only necessities surrounding them-crowded calendars of the past hang on their walls. These are the people that pay close attention to small beautiful details that others eyes can’t discern. The lonely men that drink and chain smoke banging out keys, some of them wishing it were a woman’s body their fingers were touching. Well- I wanted to be that body! I wanted to be the goddess muse, the picture behind the rhythmic words. The inspiration. The madness. I wanted to experience the last of the romantics. The writers. I wanted them to think of me, as I do of them.

1040 miles/hr

Earth moves way too fast
for me
dizzy, heart pounding
nothing making sense
just slow down.
I need to be able to breathe for
once, never being long enough.

OH! HUMAN JIGGSAW PUZZLE

Millions of pieces floating in a box
shaken, scattered, missing-
thoughts, feelings.

Judgments of sentiment and taste

my aesthetics are only pleasing
to the inappreciable.
suicide pacts
between lovers
aren't suppose to be romantic,
but oh!
what a way to check out early.
the unclad trees in the rawness of winter only appeal to those who are
despondence.
getting stopped at railroad crossings are never
a nuisance- watching the graffiti roll by always,
always leaves me highly pleased. delighted that the people who rushed
the lights, the sounds, and the level crossings
were too worried about getting to the shopping malls or the banks.
baby, my aesthetics are only charming to the peculiar boys who sit by themselves
the ones who find it tolerable being alone.
the way I memorize the veins
on the hands so as to not forget the ones who have
touched me
is entirely unique to few.
and seeing blackbirds fluttering in the skies one would speculate
dread-
but I marvel at the blackness against the bright skies.
my aesthetics are only magnetic to the
ones who comprehend that smiles do not signify happiness
that if it was of such great possibilities that I could let those
people
the ones who's perception is off know how much
joy I have inside me and how much beauty and romance dances in my body- if only
I could project the inside feelings to the outside world- they would never ask again
why,
why there is rarely a curve of my lips.
and they would know that the most satisfying judgments are your own.

a thin green candle...

I'm a writer, and I tell people this and they keep asking if my writings are online so they can read them, and I always tell them no, in a very shy manner. I'm still pretty old fashion and just type all of my stuff out on my type writer or on napkins if I'm in a smokey bar and file them in a folder at home later. But- I finally decided to put them up here, just in case my apartment burns down or some other godly disaster occurs or maybe just simply because I want you to read them? So, everything I post up here was written with truth and beauty, love and lust, and most likely a little wine inside of me, but always with the intention of letting these words flow freely out of my mind, down the bones in my arms, and through my fingers because these feelings, these words, the rhythm, is just in me and for some reason I feel that in order for me to keep sane I have to write it all down and get it out of me. If by chance your name appears or an initial of some sort, sorry but C' est Le Vie!

There is no order for these, dates and times are mixed and mingled with one another. No assumptions.