structured

structured

(old school)

the missing children:

fourth of july celebration (part II)

ambulances

another

childhood

3 day road trip (3 boys and a girlfriend)

"God"

Voice

Christian

Upon looking at my journal

the leopard and the lion

Blondes:

mad hatters

the pulling out of words has ceased (a loss)

will this?

eating the lioness

this is what we are:

poem about an ex-boyfriend written in the book of numbers

the pretty boy w/ numbers:

forgotten title

andrew.

and he tasted her and she tasted him.

Infatuation has Seized Me.

Euphoria in Blood

Flappers-

Love Poem (for Andrew)

When I am Gone

Untitled

Spearbearer

these fleshy insertions

fall in love with her,

black angel kissed devil of the nite,

hair slightly matted from the shower

(smelling faintly of moonlite),

(neglect hurting girl balled up in a corner,

desperately searching

for her short pants that were lost in the storm,

her words, her pathetic

cries, her notebooks of reason)

ignore her bottles, her stacked card castles, those loves,

those long lost loves,

but remember (never forget)

. she's

beautiful.

here you are. random happenings at it again.

nora

you do not love

you do not love, you pretend to squeeze out folded paper hearts, you strum that guitar belting out tunes,

you lie lie lie

crooning at your upset stomach,

bruised and purple, undigested at it's best.

so tragic, a melody, a knock knock joke with boo-hoo's and tears and

laughter tightening at your insides, a good hurt, a tug with a rope,

never listening, never caring, only a soft pedestal,

fluffy,

repeating what i say back to you: "really/i see"

and i can't compete with this.

not you.

not ever.

for him

he is busy again

he is busy trying to build virgin marys

with board hands, clean hands, hands that

fear the darkness of another

(the so-called clean one, the vinegar in it all)

and/where

for him there is only lite, the kind of lite that sprays in perfect sheets,

it forgives everyone, it's hypocritical, it sort of listens. ( )

i sit still. i wait. for him, i'm always waiting.

let us.

let us try to be happy,

let us play ring around the rosy

for the blonde,

let us laugh and dance and cry in circles

for him,

let us agonize, bleed, sweat, write poems

for the blonde,

because we etch stone tablets, we care

enough to tell his story, we once laughed, loved,

lived epics for him.

once.

now we type like ryan, we loiter around the river.

you're always away.

out pounces ellie

i hear the thunderous paws of felines

waiting- lurking at the door

pouncing after bugs of prey

they stop, slowly eyeing the shoes of one another,

(confused, darks merging into lights with such ease)

bounding away into the stairs of morning.

don't talk to it.

don't run around in glass elevators chasing him,

he's so gone, he's so out of control,

he's so taken by her.

daniel

i'm sorry i can not write for you

(even when i'm writing)

i can't breathe the same air you breathe

knowing

that it suffocates as it departs from you

(holes, i see them when you can't)

and i just can't deal with the fact

that you know

(i know)

that what i desire is too holy, much too

holy for the ivory of mine

like piano keys, they light up from your touch

(tickle, giggle and joke),

feathers caressing the soul of you,

your charity auctions, your baby animals

wrapped around your feet,

your foot that bleeds as a heart bleeds,

like water rushing to the edge of something

great

(thirsty- thirsting for more).

i'm sorry.

your foot will heal.

my soul never will.

4th of July Celebration (Part II)

(thanks so much to annie {belle7719} for helping me with this! :)

i am miniature time bombs,

warning signs,

neon lights luminating this melanin of blue

ink blotting the sky, running down her legs-

varicose veins of wear and tear,

eventually seeping, wearing off of old age, alone.

but we're thunderous! we crash into each other like an endless

game of cat and mouse-

the shore and the sea, rubbing, running gallantly,

tossing bikini tops up in the air like a pipe bomb,

Hiroshima, another mindless mushroom cloud.

(there could never be a brighter sun... your flames lick too fast, i sunburn too easily)

and that bitch! she gets attention faster than any hooker,

a half lit cigarette dangling from that crooked smile-

defying the rules without tanlines,

she's wary, tired of explosions, sick of over exposure.

(they run, the play together, bleeding like a dual heart of siamese twins)

pretending everydayness tarnishes this act, ruining hieroglyphics,

destroying the sacredness of the rosetta stone

while

cigarettes burn out in those neuron lites, transporting messages,

holding your money like those machines in the bank-

they're lost, eager and vicious, aching to see life on the other side.

alas, black sunless skies steal the show, history repeating itself, deaths marked on

nostradamus's calendar of holy events. hookers retreat into alley's, whispers

are granted to only a few.

i am the fireworks,

(on this joyous celebration, 4th of July)

playing games, they are dancing like lovers, intimate, but distant-

they don't talk much.

not much different from any other occasion.

words never listen to me anyway.

Ambulances

Ambulance rushing by

picking up lost breaths

unfallen from your shelves-

wooden,

rotten and breaking,

nail-less

Engulfing fields of blank stares

littered with empty words,

Shattered handprints

(shattered like our memories,

you saving me from him- you becoming him)

Where out of blue/red lights flower

paramedics, recovering your mangled body,

blood encrusted, clumped with scabs.

Wordless eyes lose their touch

as petals bleed

(as you become him),

bleeding into blood-red Callistos-

my maid of honor.

Another

i cannot write a poem:

it suffocates with big hands,

alien to mine, refurbished evenly, making desks

from woods to pines to flowers-

he is too distant from me,

(falling out of the boxes he lives in)

never listening to me,

(agreeably bored with the sky)

bargaining off the old days to greedy customers:

they would like a piece of it, arranged

from dusty headquarters, somewhat withered and private-

I think i should love another instead.

Childhood

Childhood holds little daisies-

encircled,

hand in hand to drown in yellow

footsteps chalking up blue

mats for archeologists to find

in eons,

in years,

enabling the pregnancy of the universe to

gestate and bloom,

weary, weather beaten men with flags to post:

“this is childhood,

this is childhood lost.”

creatures aren't responding in their hesitant wait,

dripping, drying, waning from the sun.

3 day road trip (3 boys and a girlfriend)

you glow, you glow bright as leo,

as a maned sun

to roar

(you roar you incessant one you, you "sardonic" one you, you with the imagery and the

capes and the floods)

at poems at poems at poems

(you say: change it to something positive, like channels, like flowing energy, like the

freckled one losing her freckles, her likelihood snatched)

i search you out

searching for something,

anything-

falling off hooks- these little coats can't oblige, they can't

ward off snow, snowmen, snow angels

(oh little lost blonde, the planets tore you from me, they rearranged you!)

a blue car, a brick in the house-

your house, our house.

“God”

could this be a vision of God to calm me in his spite,

or to rush up w/ angels in blonde wigs?

to laugh?

to joke?

saying: "yes, my child, you are strong, you are ready,"

and of course he loves you, he always loves you;

your "friends"

(the portal to Him, the light!)

say he loves you, he loves your antics,

your "difficultness,"

the way you were never able to die your hair like that.

and

you grabbed his shoulders! crawling the architecture of him,

his broad theater space- empty for now, spacious,

"open for rent."

yet you run.

you run and hide.

Lions aren't enough. we need the Spanish ambassadors too.

Voice

His voice: black, velvety, a leather binding,

ravens cawing and cawing out to the parrot-

a baby, still young in his old age

(wise beyond his years),

an oil stained feather floating down to greet me-

hollowed, sacred, full of death and violence

and marriage

(and life and light and bells and exploding stars and

choirs of angels to bestow the heavens).

voices of little boys are trembling outside my window-

dew on petals,

still velvety and sweet, always tremoring in my wake,

my rumpled sheets,

my bed that is open to you.

.Christian

.........

he's the little voice:

trembling,

a quivery little leaf crowed among

the sharpness of frost

(the mother speaking irreverently-

is she just as confused? afraid of shedding

her skins in regard to the manner?)

and poor Daniel- the boy, the light,

the thing that greets us in

pools and spas, the thing

growing up among the muck of

yesteryears.

(the musician lies, lies lies lies

at trees,

at boys,

at the blondes losing their hoods,

their virginities and their silly little

raincoats- clauses disrupting,

rain drowning in itself.)

parentheses are as stick straight

as she was at 12- pointlessly stark,

awaiting the curves

of skin

to erupt from her arms,

for breasts to be full and touchable,

for

her body to be worthy,

for

the nite of bliss

to bestow moonbeams,

maybe a wedding cake or 2,

for bodies to crash w/

the forces of newborn

stars-

the bait of a fishhook, wriggly

worms destined for the stomachs

of displaced animals.

this is all up to the Christian though.

Upon looking at my journal

I shouldn't have looked,

I shouldn't have peeked,

but I couldn't help myself

in this clingy nitegown

(actually a t-shirt)

proving that yes,

I was a cheerleader,

no,

I'm not blonde,

yet the words intrigue me-

spite me,

(lackluster breaths from the

water fearing one

steal caresses,

screaming: "No! No!")

blind me,

(your pages rubbing against mine...

sexual exhibitioners)

and nothing,

not even

dirty masturbation hands

can stop me now.

Things

You were thing one

and she was

thing 2-

salt and pepper,

this and that-

Dr. Seuess characters in their

own right,

lifted up on an altar

to bestow God,

christianless,

(poems w/out words: the king of

personification)

loveless,

(geminis ripped from each other

at the side),

endingless.

the faceless men.

I day dream of faceless men: able backed men, strong men,

men w/ broad shoulders and

eyes:

those eyes!

dark browns, blues, greens

orbiting in front of a face:

faceless.

the missing children.

I feel them: running, isolated, sitting in crap among

lifeless dolls

( I hear the water running, the man, the balloons, the water bearer)

wearing dresses: raggedy, trampled, smudged with

orange food pastes

(I fell in love the like the lightning- then bolted faster than it took to hit the ground)

that dry dry dry in encrusted little universes

(and who says the poet died? crumbled? was misplaced by the homecoming queen?)

and the missing children- floating up with helium inflated cheeks,

waiting in the horizon for birds to pop them

(he cares the way I care: there one minute, gone in a flash)

sending tendrils, streaming color to chalk the skies in devilish reds,

the missing children-

(don't run around in glass elevators chasing him; he's so gone; he's so out of control, he's

so taken by her)

deflated-

losing their scent:

the perfume that kept them afloat that now smells of death,

(I want to run with the missing children; I want to run with you)

of you.

Heartbeat.

What is this series of events?

Babies growing in gardens: tulips- blue before you were ever born,

and I want to scream... to let go...

to lose...

the boy wilting after hearing about the bits- the masks,

like pain had never existed in his pretty little head; our world the way

astronauts view it: blues swirled in clouds of mischief: ice cream!

And he says: "We are not worthy of love. People are not worthy of love,"

Where I tend to disagree;

we are capable of running with our hearts beating in our hands,

free,

tangled weeds twisting around the remains of our

red dresses.

But hearts can only manifest so much pain, so much damage

from broken hands

before their rivers dry out and refuse to beat.

The Leopard and the Lion

I: I run fast,

catching my spots 'fore they spill

to the ground in

clumps: in clusters around

and around and around

by the chartreuse landscape

(the word-bearer!) draped in blues,

moving oh so fast after the lions mane,

chasing it, losing it,

(snatching that mane, ripping out shreds from his fingers: paws, paws and gold)

gone.

Blondes:

They think they know everything like the hair curled on their finger,

like sex, sex is a bed of love where sheets are

(lathered in juices and other forbidden remains)

unfolded as petals bloom,

and poems, poems are a hidden fancy- a glossy advertisement

screaming with obscenities,

and poets can only

(make love)

spill words from their pen: blondes embody passion, they do all the rest.

blah... i don't like this

mad hatters

little kisses sprinkled out like stars,

mad hatters

that say: "you can kiss; kissing is your kind of sport!"

and really I can only kiss you in dreams,

where tongues have warmed up to your scent,

where you

and I

fall into each other like a puzzle,

planets breathing in and out

(gulping volumes of air)

stars arch their backs: a collapse of death-

mad hatters losing their hats.

planets breathing soft

as you breathe me in: lightly,

a hiccup as the earth shifts

i can not write any more tales for you

big shouldered man,

i can't waste prose on your puppy dog

eyes which only chase around my muse

in the end,

i can't dedicate these words that so-badly

want to be for you,

but yearn for the old you

in Venezuela.

The pulling out of words has ceased. (a loss)

Death can't wrap around the skins of you

and rubies can't compensate

for the loss of the love, a love, my love,

the one true plumetting thing that went off like a star--

sizzling down to a joke;

silly ants to roast in the sun.

will this?

will this pouring of vowels come out all wrong?

tangled, swirling from my fingers w/ the grace

of nothing?

of football players?

does this end make me worthwhile,

make me good?

my heart is racing, pumping bullets,

wanting: to write perfectly wired letters,

screaming,

bleeding,

figure 8's among lined blues,

silence; silence.

eating the lioness (hunger pains)

if the earth possesses so much beauty, then why can't you suck out her juices?

bodies intertwined,

our souls empty,

water-logged and damp?

i am swirling and there is a nothing-ness in it.

he whispers, "what's with you," and i have to shake, shatter tears w/ my laughter

because it is his fire that has stolen my crown,

it is his eyes that have lost their amber,

and we cannot sit on the same throne; skimming, surfaces, rebound.

i am swirling and there is a nothing-ness in it.

i see you stalking about, near the jungle,

rivers crossing at a purple stone,

and all you do is shimmy across the water, pebble-less and free,

your mane tangled w/ sticks.

the sight makes me cry

because you are dancing

and fires succumb to the eyes: a paleness, clear and deep as a whale's mouth.

you are swirling.

there is a nothing-ness in it.

this is what we are:

(1)

we are wrapped in gauze,

we can't be penetrated,

we run like mudslides chasing your feet,

we fall into holes but climb back out,

we are the tongues you've sliced off,

we are the words falling from shattered teeth.

you try to steal our sacred bread,

but we rise higher; carry heavier crowns.

we own lights and colors and arabesques that you will never recreate.

you make this ours- we make this ours.

(2)

i've fallen in love w/ the roofs of mouths and still been able to whisper,

to dance w/ the frail amongst stolen violins.

i've gotten more hugs than hackel,

and beautiful boys on arms,

seen people turn from solids into liquids,

and hold hands faster than death,

faster than any crooked laugh trying to penetrate dark,

faster than love,

than this

poem about an ex-boyfriend written in the book of numbers.

writing poetry for the poet is so much harder than

parting seas for lucifer,

sucking up blood, forcing skin into a desert

or rocks fucking in the sun-

a blister.

how can one write for the oh, destroyer?

Illuminating a silhouette,

paint spilling from your hands as the mouth whispers insults,

red and streaked.

Watching love fall out of your doors is like waiting for glass to cool.

the loving of you does not cease quite so easily,

eyelashes clasping and unclasping,

(leaves need to crisp first)

secrets falling out of fertile ears w/ the agility of fish.

if your fingers could stand in single file w/ mine- beating,

marching off together as one-

an army, a fight-

love could cool to a diamond.

but love wears a heavy cloak, heavier than 5 minutes remaining in the hour:

half eaten, like an orange.

for someone as faded as he,

it is a shock for clouds to still hold his memory,

where tears are leveled like rain,

in pinks.

in blues.

in the pressing of petals against damp skin. .

the pretty boy w/ numbers:

he who hides in the thicket behind woodsy eyes

and numbers-

a slathering of numbers that crack at you,

staleness never occuring,

lips bleeding and wordless

(you are my poems! you are my lighthouse; you are the tide i run to when wetness leaks

out of me like a disease!)

and falling in love could not occur w/out your unspoiled laughter:

perfection in watery hues; not smeared; not cut through w/ a knife,

stealing my words like drops of rain running down your back. .

. forgotten title

sometimes the writer in me tries so hard to be separate

washing her clothes- sifted from yours,

a kind of dance if you will; a mating call.

and love is a ritual: a harvest, something you invest so

many half seconds and fingers and hands

that we don't have enough time to cry or break,

letting our pieces fall in our laps to just once

be silent.

andrew.

falls in love with the

small of my back, hands moving

upwards, and he trembles!: little leaf, a trembling

body to collapse

w/ the breaths of rubbing feet,

hands cupping my face,

(kiss-me eyes; his drooping eyelids),

leather couches-

the drippings of sex.

and he tasted her and she tasted him.

Do we bleed like larks for you? under

this sheath, the fingers taking eyefuls

of him

(she sucks in her stomach has he walks by)

and the tendrils- bloody? dried?- under the influence of April.

But numbers- numbers are solid; numbers

wear size 12 shoes; they possess stability.

Not this soreness of thighs

(looming things over my head like grapes),

not the sharp tongue that undoes me.

Infatuation has Seized Me.

I smell men and the shock scares me.

Hurts, burns,

for boys are of the same breed in this entanglement-

vines a vineyard,

our skins damp like wet paper.

For love is a disease that punctures souls;

gives diseased milk from sagging breasts.

and your exotic looks, your branches

that scrape across my heart

We fall out of fringes.

We all have beautiful shoulders here.

Euphoria in Blood

oh you- you who cause me to write in

blood,

your wrists reflecting broken hearts

from cobwebbed wombs.

you- you who lied to me while wearing

scarves (red, a splatter of crimson),

talking of geometric designs that seemed too obtuse

to be you,

let alone you-

the grave you dug for him,

the corsages you still hang dry

(geraniums, begonias, carnations)-

but no roses.

Roses are for your grave oh tumble-weed

bitch of you,

for dandelion seeds to scuttle in etherized mouths.

Flappers-

We're all flappers in this day and age,

ageless smiles frozen in browned portraits-

the furious bob spilling from God-knows-where

and I'm sprawled underneath him thinking:

This is my history: In all it's richness,

in flesh & blood; these labors that crossed

rivers for me. Me.

The flappers shimmy on their way back to Sunday.

And the lives of slave owners and Jewel

sit at my hands, somehow basking in the

glow of the deep south, whispering, eerily,

"My secrets are far and wide. They bow to you."

And, pearls never looked more beautiful when

sleeping on her shoulders (and his shoulders were mine),

The flappers shimmying their way back to Sunday.

Love Poem (for Andrew)

If love spread her fringes over

our hearth, could you?

Could you- these pen carcasses spilling

secrets (all written in your name)- blow besitos

in my ear after the letting down of hair?

Like love: Love poems being pulled out of

me like a string,

our arms creating new universes at the

first touch of anti-lock brakes,

my nose brushing against yours-

sniffing, sniffing you out in this absence

of you,

us robed in black,

always searching for silver

in the salted lonliness of nite.

When I am Gone

One day when I am gone the love letters

will be revealed to you-

each letter, each vowel crooning

in the hole where you are not:

the scribbles telling stories w/ exceptional

facial expressions,

and,

our house: (or is it a bed? I can never remember)

will fold over itself,

my folds bleeding for you,

my love letters devoured by your

aching heart-

and writer girl (who is smitten by you):

laying w/ her hands rubbing her

stomach is all,

all trees can perform.

Untitled

Toes curl beside the space where you are not,

the air: empty, holding no roses in her fist

while she waits,

a distant cry behind your eyes, growing

in volume

(voluptuous in symmetry; more fertile

than a woman)

and hours gestate, oh not fast enough;

oh how I want us to create new beings!

our entangled arms giving birth;

oh how I wish our baby was premature.

Spearbearer

My perfect spear-bearer!

How you were there amongst smoke and

ruins,

your hands pulling the bits back together

into Atlantis

where Gods- all Gods- flee on their songs,

and you: (How you) clung to me w/ your

nakedness (so smooth; so new), running my

hands down the architecture of your

back (so beautiful my dear),

into where hands never ventured

(trees were afraid to shake);

sand castles collapsed on impact

(never built). .

these fleshy insertions .

first he bashed me w/ fists more fit for roses

than the flesh he brushed up against,

my lip: bloodied as it was when i sucked him up, his arm-

beautiful, perfectly sculpted in marble, and her torso sunk lower,

slower,

her hands meeting the ground as the mother

shook her head in disgust:

"he's done the same thing to me;"

and pen caps sunk back into ink beds,

and I,

defeated,

let the liquids scab over where mouths once planted lies,

not this soot of a decaying kiss.

burning the pictures

love came crashing back to you!

her furs, delicately purring behind eyes- how

they were yours!

how you undid all i carved out for you w/ one spoken word;

lovlies displaying splayed legs the way

you would when you were w/ me

(and how beautiful you looked wearing nothing, eyes piercing

into me... telling me

to dance wearing feathers and spelling mistakes like the oil smeared between your toes).

how you undid the cities, the curves of my cursive-

turned into 12 year olds again,

undoing buttons, zippers, syringes (how i

loved watching you give yourself insulin!);

the undone pictures of her in your room

now undone of me. .

you and i

we became literature, you and i,

we collaborated w/ the coilings of neck and noose,

our words, so light, so dense, the jungles of

our paragraphs thickened,

our tongues unable to define the taste,

so refined were we, laid back,

fallen

forgottan,

our God with a dislocated heart,

our love as inate as a rock,

we stumbled into this world pre-torn, unsewn

and ready for a collision,

yet we, together, you and i,

we have somehow tied cities together w/ our lives,

the webbed skin b/t fingers still fresh,

we have collaborated, unstuck each other, let

our cohesive-ness bubble away,

your fingers, my fingers,

only bones puncturing the softness we feel, necks dancing.

triamvirate

crouching around the toilet

i bow to those above

who wish for what i have,

but i do not want,

and what so many others would

die for.

II.

i want to resist the news,

the reactions on his face,

how his muscles can change the

contours,

the lines of it so easily,

and the eyes, widened,

the hands below

ready to grab for something,

anything-

anything other than a new cell.

III.

it is somehow harder to

release it to matthew,

my sardonic one,

my lion: my favorite boy,

for he will be the most

dissappointed in the increase of mucous,

and my life,

my dreams- they were his to believe in,

what he lived through.

now both our dreams have

deflated due to

the penetrations,

the splitting,

the increase of crossed legs.