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.

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.

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.

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.