Death of a Ladys Man

2011-12-07T11:42:00.000-08:00

there's a rejection slip
from a boy
hanging on my wall
in my room, by my bed
where we made love
one night, i poured wine on him and laughed
trying to be sexy but being too drunk to pull it off
the rejection slip is still there but
the boy isnt
he doesnt call or come over and i know it shouldnt
matter
but rejection is like getting wine poured on you
by a drunk girl who is laughing

fucking crybaby

2011-11-26T10:56:00.000-08:00

and you told me once "i'm only mean like that to you",
and i didnt know how to take it and i still dont
ive never told someone i loved them only for them to be mean to me,
afterwards and forever.
but i guess,
i guess this is how it happens sometimes
youre getting older but its all still there so
you hold your breathe when he's close,
or you watch his hair grow back, slowly--
wondering if maybe he cut you out of his way before you did
the same to him...
or the fact that maybe its all bullshit, that you dreamed it all up..its all one big fucking
daydream.
you never kissed, he never held your hand, he never tried to make you laugh, you never danced together, nothing good ever happened
he's always been a jerk to you--
this is what you tell yourself everytime the wind blows by you, there was always something
about him and the wind.

2011-10-28T14:18:00.000-07:00

i havent seen him look that way in a while and he hasnt seen me smile like that ever. i let my heart run away sometimes and get overwhelmed and wonder what youre doing. what song you just listened to or what kind of beer youre drinking tonight. if you ever think of me as i do of you. and these always seem like mini love letters to you but always, never, without, replies///i always hoped you would fall in love with me, i always hoped that there was something you could love about me. like my long hair, or my blue eyes, that mole by my right breast or the one right underneath my eye, the way i would sometimes look at you while we danced, or maybe the fact that i always remember when your birthday is without being reminded. you told me once to never have chipped nail polish, and just because you broke my heart i cut my long hair and always, always wait till my nail color fades///

not every living creature has to die alone

2011-09-14T13:45:00.000-07:00

i imagined how this would be. me hurting you for the last time and you leaving. never talking to me again except maybe a phone call on christmas, your favorite holiday, not mine. we would eventually get over one another and move on, you would buy antony and the johnsons on vinyl for a new girl and i would buy another grown man his first tea kettle, hoping that he would let me smoke cigarettes inside his house during the winter while i drank the tea he made. she would take over my tradition of buying you a new christmas ornament for your tree each year but they would never mean as much to you, there would never be as much thought put into it. she would always trust you and never go through your notebooks or your phone. but you would lie to her when she asked if you ever thought of me, if you ever missed me. and you did both of those things and you always would. i would find someone who wanted to marry me and i would eventually call you up and tell you the good news, asking you for advice, "do you think i can actually love the same man.. forever?" you'd be in your late forties, trying to hold on to what youth you still had. she'd actually be your age though this time. You would hear the excitement in my voice, the smile. you would never put a ring on anyone's finger. The closest I got to that was a ring with a moon stone that you gave me on some holiday or birthday. I would still wear it, switching it from finger to finger, making room for the ones he would buy me. You both would sit in the same apartment, you finally giving in and letting her move in with you. You at your desk writing, her bored and wondering what her old friends were up to or reading marie claire or some other trash magazine wondering when the next touch would come. and i wish i could tell her that it won't ever show up, that things dont change with people. they stay the same they just get older and more set in their ways. and when i invite the both of you to the wedding she silently cries in the shower because she knows that she is stuck unless she leaves, unless she breaks your heart, unless she becomes brave. she doesnt know what being brave is so she breaks your heart instead, the only way she knows how to get out, the only way anyone knows how to get out. this is what i imagine, sitting with you, watching some horrible television show that we've both already seen. this is what i think about while i fall asleep on the couch and you crawl off to my bed not waking me, not putting an arm around me at night, not kissing me or touching me. and i always imagined this is how it would be.

2011-09-12T14:52:00.001-07:00

sometimes it is just about having them there. about letting them see what your room looks like. or that arm on your chest or your back, your thigh. sometimes i just want someone breathing in my ear. or someone else's cell phone alarm to go off in the morning. i wanna know what beer and cigarette breathe smells like. i wanna have to get up to find that sock that you cant seem to find. sometimes i actually do want to know what you wanna do with your life, what you imagined you would do when you were little. i wanna hear what your voice sounds like when youre not around your friends, what your laugh sounds like. its not always about fucking.

childhood secrets

2011-08-19T12:53:00.000-07:00

his eyelashes were like golden foils placed delicately above and below his eyes. He had a boyish lust and after i had gotten over him, or the idea of him, he wasnt as handsome as he use to be. His crooked teeth no longer seemed cute. His dirty nails were just that and i had no time for his hands anymore. no longer wished them on my body. He had returned finally to that place in time where he was just another boy that i continued to overlook, bypass. He no longer made my heart flutter like a million monarch butterflies, no longer made me replay silly, simple sentences over in my head in fear they would come out all jumbled and stuttered through a body full of nerves. My friends always wondered and questioned what it was that i saw in him and i would gush and words would come spilling out of my mouth too quickly, proclaiming how beautiful he was, and always ending it with "you really dont think so?!" and i guess now i understand why they had said it. They knew he had my heart, I had given it to him too easily on a silver platter, including silverware to destroy it, eat it, and spit it out at me. i only miss his eyelashes though. and maybe his laugh and the way he would ask me if i was sleepy, and take my hand and lead me to his room. It always made me feel special. That hand in mine, it made me feel like i was right on the cusp of being a child and also an adult, but with a secret. It was like whispering a secret into a childhood friends ear and knowing they would keep it forever. That hand. and those eyelashes. those are really the only things i miss.

Je n'avais aucun homme en juillet

2011-07-21T14:37:00.001-07:00

i once was told, that the most beautiful thing
a man saw
was a cat sun bathing outside on the
pavement.

2011-07-13T14:27:00.000-07:00

i just wanted to be a rebel, baby
wanted to be the other women for once
but once i had the opportunity for this,
i ran and hid, avoided phone calls and emails
im not much of a rebel and clearly perhaps a pacifist-
but only when it comes to love.
and there are those moments
when time stops
but i've only expeirenced the ones involving death and sex
hospitals and beds
and it all seems trivial now
when you try to picture those memories in your head but you
cant see his face but you know that she still pictures yours.

summer of love

2011-07-13T13:09:00.000-07:00

i've got sunglasses lying around my apartment

red ones and black ones,

yellow and white-

five or six pairs.

and

you would think that i was trying

to hide from the sun or something.

the point is..

2011-06-29T14:40:00.000-07:00

and there comes a point in your life when you stop being selfish for one minute and think about someone else for a change because regardless of how much they have hurt you, how many times they have made you cry, how many times they have smiled at you and then turned around and walked out the door with another one, you still care, you still love, and you still want them to know that someone has their back.

2011-06-11T11:15:00.000-07:00

i wake up through out the morning
changing the alarm clock on my phone
pushing back the time i need to wake up
three, four, five times because
even five more minutes with my head on your chest is
worth the dirty looks i'll get
walking into work late.

chitter chatter and gossip in italtian

2011-05-18T16:56:00.000-07:00

salt dries on the skin after morning swims
my hair is long again, and i feel beautiful once more-
the men stare as i walk through the streets because they can't quite decide if i am american or not,
they have thoughts of me being european in their minds.
lovely porcelain european girl.
the women snarl as their men's eyes follow me down those alleys
and its the romance and the freedom that i've longed for
their voices and language that i've craved
and it only takes money to get there
money that i've rather spend on booze for now, to drown worthless sorrow
and i laugh at myself crying about how trapped i feel
as i take another sip of sierra nevada.

frustrated ramblings of a twenty five year old in love.

2011-05-09T14:24:00.000-07:00

you were just a fuck, get over it.

and it's 7:15

2011-05-04T16:16:00.000-07:00

and my life has become nothing more than
candy and heart shaped mood rings
and aches in my chest.
i only wish you knew who richard brautigan was.
maybe that poem on my chest you always read would mean more---

2011-04-11T08:49:00.001-07:00

I stopped taking the meds because I couldn't write about anything worthwhile, everyone wants to see me smile but all I wanna do is write. I've made my life complicated to see how I will deal, handle, get out, of certain situations. At least this is what pops in my head when I ask myself what the fuck i'm doing with my life...when I have that other drink, or make eyes at so and so, or take a hit of this and that, say things I shouldnt say. I'm testing myself, you, her, and him, this fucking universe. And none of this makes sense to anyone anymore. Introspective mind. I think about why my left foot hits the ground harder, or why my brain focuses on negative thoughts and comments more than the positive ones. I wanna know how I work. These are the things I think about. My brain is occupied with myself the majority of the time, and you think all I do is think about you. Crooked teeth. and that walk. You may occupy the mind but my heart is doing fine. And they have nicknamed me red..ruby or cherry. And it makes me feel like a little girl with the nicknames these men call me, and sometimes I dont want the nickname but the lollipop that comes with it. Back in the old days, back in the old days I wasn't around, mind in the clouds I didnt have all this stuff to worry about, why my viens in my arms are so small, why my heart beats faster when you walk by me. They say you only fall in love six times in your life. I havent used up any of mine. and i prayed that i didnt hit that cat who ran out in front of my car, it was black, and my life didnt need anymore bad luck. imagine the gods laughing at me because not only did it cross my path but i killed the poor thing. And he likes to ask how I came to certain thoughts, what lead me there, to this nonsense in my head, and sometimes i think he's just trying to fool me into telling him more so i always reply with, "no reason." I dont like sharing everything. And I had to watch them bury my friend amd i had to make myself remember the route to the cemetery so i could go visit, drop flowers off, poems, secrets, lovers. i promise i'll come have picnics with you, in the sun, with my lolita glasses on. and you see how quickly my mind jumps.a hundred million things racing around inside my head and i cant focus on just one, and this is the way with the men in my life too. it all becomes to much to just focus on one. let me split my love up among them. and i know what outfits you like the best. i always thought the spell was placed upon you but maybe its the other way around. maybe this is the other way around!

2011-04-01T08:54:00.000-07:00

twenty five
years of heartache
it seems the hole in my heart
just gets deeper and more hollow
and the number of men
keeps growing, declining.
no one has ever counted the freckles on my body,
have taken no pictures, or whispered in my ear the word love.
the poems written about me, have never been seen though
im sure they exist.
i am no ones muse.
and these are things that occupy my mind
while im showering or trying to fall asleep
on the couch because the bed is too big for one.

unfinished....

2011-03-03T17:10:00.000-08:00

new beginnings by choice, no force. love is in the air, this spring breeze. gentle touches that give me chills down my spine, patience leaves my legs shaking and I dont wanna wake up, use to the feeling of falling but this is too good, dont want it to stop, dont let it. mind is right, for once things are feeling good. eye contact. stares. and i know you can see yourself in my future. minds eye. ready to give up my old ways.

But than again i'm lonely, and its a different lonely than i've felt before..before I felt really alone, now it's just a feeling of something missing, someone. I never wanted to have children or get married but I think the fact that I'll be turning twenty five soon has been running around in my head and my thoughts on some things have changed. I picture myself with a man I love dearly, devoted, finally devoted to him. Being proud of the dinner thats on the table, having hope and faith in him and being their biggest fan. Unable to stay mad at night while I lay beside him, waiting until their asleep to tell them im sorry and kiss them on the back of their shoulder. Doing creative things together, making love in the afternoon, smiling from ear to ear all from a look. And then children...I think this only changed after I had the abortion..seeing one year olds smile at their mothers, such peaceful eyes. choosing the perfect name..picking out clothes for them, singing them songs my father sung me, teaching them the importance and rules of life according to us, parents. As they grow older playing my old records for them, telling them stories of my childhood, taking tons of pictures due to the lack of mine in the baby books that sit in my parents trunk. unconditional love.

And I don't want this now but maybe sometime when i'm ready and I find someone who wants to spend their time with me without excuses. When I find that guy who when im with the world quiets and disappears and we're the only two running around acting like teenagers, drunk and high off of each other. I want that. I want someone who tries to make me laugh not one who ask why im not smiling. The one who kisses me on my forehead countless times.

The thought arises that maybe I can't handle any of this, that maybe this isnt what I am, or want to be, that i'll never be emotionally stable enough to deal with having another person in my life, sometimes im just way too selfish. This is a dream world that society keeps forcing on me and my thoughts of love affairs, traveling the world because I have no children and I can do that if I want to, that I wont be able to stay with one man for the rest of my life...this all scares me but I know myself and I wont ever stop falling in love with people, never. And people won't stop falling for me and I can't always say no, I can't always do this. My heart pounds when im by him, around him, feeling his touch on my arm and face, my thighs and breast. How the hair on my skin stands up when i feel his cool breathe on the back of my neck. I want this. More than I've wanted a lot of things, willing to fight, to move on and leave my past in the past. And im scared that maybe i wont be able to do this, that the thought of another relationship will just stress me out, that i'll worry too much about this and that and what will happen in the future and I wont be able to just be here now with him. That it'll be too much for him to deal with, the way my mind works will be too much..it's always been too much for one to handle.

poetic justiss

2011-02-16T15:00:00.000-08:00

It was two thousand and eight. It had been a hard day at work, I was outside the building smoking a cigarette and for whatever reason- destiny, love from the universe, or maybe just because, Ghori drove by...saw the sadness in my eyes and told me that he knew who would help me, that it was time I met his friend.

I had heard about this man before from the old Fuel days, but up until that night had never came across him, I remember being nervous and excited. The seventeenth floor. My first encounter with him was intense. When I first got there I went and used the restroom, with the door slightly ajar, I heard him tell Ghori that I was one of the classy ones, a real woman. Our conversation was a brutally honest one, I cried, I poured my heart out to him, he gave me advice on me wanting to be a writer and I cried more. I felt like I had just gone to a therapy session. I'm pretty sure we were all stoned and that probably had a lot to do with this yogi like feeling I felt. Ghori and I kissed the entire way down. Seventeen floors. I had found a muse, two of them.

I kept going back to see him, his view of the river was incredible, hearing him speak of his past, the secrets that he kept only for those he knew wouldn't judge, we would sit up there and drink beer, me taking mental note of the great things he was saying and telling him about all my love affairs, and who I trully loved, and him asking me why it wasn't him. When I met a boy I really especially liked, I would take him with me, just like Ghori had taken me, to meet this great man, and he always made sure to let me know if he dug the guy or not. Matthew had been his favorite.

He encouraged me to write how I felt comfortable writing, which was putting myself into my writing, getting personal, to hell with everyone else, he'd tell me. To feel free to curse or talk about sex or about my depression. He was at the first open mic poetry reading I did, and my piece, indeed, were full of lines about him. Lines about great writers with crowded calendars that hung on the walls. About his typewriter clacking away all night. About how he was one of the last romantics, a writer.

He'd always call at two or three in the morning..usually intoxicated in the middle of a poem and he'd recite me lines and tell me how much he wished he was younger so I would consider being with him, a dirty old man for sure. For the zine collection downtown, there was a gala event..I asked him if he would be my date and I came dressed to the nines and didn't mind at all that he was wearing jeans, I was proud to be there with him, and when he asked me to fill up his empty coffee mug with shrimp from the party so he could eat them later, I didn't hesitate. The nights I would venture out to the bar on the corner from where he stayed, I'd make sure to call him as I stood on the corner and tell him to look down and blow him a kiss. When I got off my anti-depressant medications he smiled the biggest smile I've seen and told me he knew I could do it, I was stronger than that.

These past few weeks I would run errands for him, grocery shopping, getting his mail, little things like that. For whatever reason it was, I felt the need to tell him I loved him whenever we talked and before I left I would always hug him and kiss him on the cheek. He told me one night before I left that I didn't realize how much one missed being touched until you were where he was in his life, I hugged him and kissed his cheek more often after that.

Yes, my heart is heavy. Yes, I went out Monday night and got plastered to the point where I don't know how I ended up where I did. Yes, he had just gotten out of the hospital but he was doing so well, walking around with a cane for once.. I took it as a blow to the stomach, seeing him just a few days prior. Yes, i know how death works, his energy all around us, him free of pain, but I can't help but be pissed off at the world for taking away someone so dear to me. I can't help but cry when I know how many people are missing him, how many people woke up this morning with heavy hearts like my own.

Alan Justiss, you were my patron saint, my writer muse, but most of all one of my best friends. With every line I write you'll be forever in my mind and heart.

2011-01-18T09:53:00.000-08:00

you sneak away to dark corners
mouths spill over with words
tongues dive and bomb into other tongues
hands grab hands
they creep in and under clothes looking for
warmth, wetness
the kisses are slow, lips pound-
you want to skip down the street, yell at the top of your lungs,
"FINALLY!"
have one of those stupid scenes from the movies where the song
comes on out of nowhere with horns and whistles and
people give you high fives, but you just put your face down and smile
a sly smile because thats all you know how to do in situations like
these, where he knows and you know and things are okay.

dirty hands

2011-01-04T14:22:00.000-08:00

i mistake my fast beating pulse for his
my palms sweat and i wipe them on my jeans
i haven't worn jeans in years
i try to convince him, high, that that sound
is his heart beating
but it's mine.
this will probably be the
last poem i write about you.

zing

2010-12-23T12:13:00.001-08:00

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

you think "i love you" is overrated

2010-12-01T11:54:00.000-08:00

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"??

clever nights turning into holiday mornings

2010-11-03T17:18:00.000-07:00

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".

unfinished-----

2010-10-22T08:37:00.000-07:00

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.

dear holden

2010-10-14T16:25:00.000-07:00

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.

haruki murakami makes me depressed

2010-10-02T11:49:00.001-07:00

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.

2010-09-24T13:27:00.000-07:00

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.

2010-09-14T13:47:00.000-07:00

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

I keep writing poems about him

2010-09-01T17:55:00.000-07:00

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-----

fuck off

2010-08-11T17:36:00.000-07:00

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?

my writing has turned into shit

2010-08-04T17:18:00.000-07:00

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.

2010-08-04T17:12:00.000-07:00

walkin' to work
and it's too fucking hot out
the car bit the dust finally
where the hell did my spirit go?

in dreams i dance with you

2010-07-26T08:59:00.000-07:00

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.

empty stomach

2010-06-25T14:40:00.001-07:00

when did we become strange collisions of beauty and violence?

2010-06-10T15:44:00.000-07:00

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.

Tropic of Libra

2010-05-27T09:35:00.000-07:00

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.

Elvis

2010-04-30T10:43:00.000-07:00

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

2010-04-07T13:56:00.000-07:00

the romanticism of suicide
has been murdered.

for its own sake

2010-04-05T12:49:00.000-07:00

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

2010-04-05T10:48:00.001-07:00

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.

write poems about me

2010-03-25T15:33:00.000-07:00

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

2010-02-25T16:58:00.000-08:00

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.

Let's Get Lost

2010-02-18T14:59:00.000-08:00

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.

Answer If You Must

2010-02-09T08:35:00.000-08:00

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?

2010-02-09T08:10:00.000-08:00

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.

2010-02-09T08:05:00.000-08:00

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?

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

2010-01-29T11:58:00.000-08:00

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

2010-01-26T16:55:00.000-08:00

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

rock n' roll

2010-01-26T13:37:00.000-08:00

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)

2010-01-16T13:34:00.000-08:00

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?

2010-01-15T14:56:00.003-08:00

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

2010-01-15T14:56:00.001-08:00

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

2010-01-15T14:55:00.001-08:00

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

2010-01-15T14:54:00.002-08:00

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

2010-01-15T14:54:00.000-08:00

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

2010-01-15T14:52:00.000-08:00

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

2010-01-15T14:50:00.001-08:00

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.

2010-01-15T14:49:00.000-08:00

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

2010-01-15T14:38:00.000-08:00

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

Lovers I had and liked

2010-01-15T14:33:00.002-08:00

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

Month 11

2010-01-15T14:33:00.000-08:00

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

mother may I?

2010-01-15T12:59:00.000-08:00

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

2010-01-15T12:56:00.000-08:00

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

2010-01-15T12:55:00.003-08:00

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

2010-01-15T12:55:00.001-08:00

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

Judgments of sentiment and taste

2010-01-15T12:54:00.001-08:00

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...

2010-01-15T10:58:00.000-08:00

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.