Thursday, August 30, 2007

Grasshoppers and an Opal Rose

Green dreams
rest in a garden
where grasshoppers
are as common
as blades of grass.

Opal roses grow
with emerald stems
sparkling in the daylight
as the sun coats my skin
with a warm silk covering.

These red lips
cant help but to
compulsively release stories
on the exhaling Z’s
stirring a still breeze.

I am a Dreamer

I’m a dreamer
Strangers sleep in my living room
At night I write about the places
they travel to in their sleep
as I morn for the seashells
that sacrificed themselves
when they went to die on my window sill
I can pretend this room is a deserted ship
and it has run aground

Under the moon I dig my feet into the sheets
like silky white sand
Here I am with my pen
lost on an undiscovered island
I hear the rain and I am put into a trance
Never before have I been so fascinated
by raindrops running down my bedroom wall
They streak the paint and give this space some history
There are snoring sounds that shake me
free and my eyes grow heavy again
I let them fall
And run off with the strangers
I am a dreamer


The dreamflies get louder as I get closer to you.

I can’t control my fantasy to runaway with some one I know nothing about.

His eyes are mysterious, but familiar

They appear in my dreams. Over. And over.

Whispering, seducing my escapist tendencies.

The Walk of a Stranger

Empty hands fly free
as butterflies
towards a sky that is open and deep
while walking familiar paths
remembered from dreams
or stories my elders once told

Talking to myself,
I pretend to ignore the dark whispers
from hallow and rotten trees
and I begin to speak
to the crickets to drown out
this reality

Under the moon
I wrap myself in imaginary quilts
dreaming of a purple mountain
in the distance
and in the morning I find myself
holding onto the earth tight
after falling asleep to close to the fire

The sun slowly rises
gradually prying my eyes open
This morning
I watch the leaves
as they fall from my trees
slip through the cracks
in my brown eyes
and I realize
that I am a stranger again
naked and cold

Monday, August 20, 2007

Swimming in the Dark

In my darkest night
You let me swim
In my black bay
Of solitude


I see cemeteries
in the patterns of
the cushions on the couch
There are no floral embroideries
only death lilies
in distant funeral homes
that I believe
may be planted
in my nose.

Wearing black,
I am invisible,
a chameleon
on this couch.
I mourn.
I crumble into
my own rubble.
I hear them as
they question my rationality
and wont turn off the lights
that sting my wounds
but they don’t try to help
incapable of clearing these red eyes,
afraid of my pain.

I lay the fetal position
dreaming of head stones and dirt
I close my eyes and I am clawing
at the top of a coffin
covered in mud
in the rain.

Passion is my Poison

Passion is my poison

Under a dim light
My thoughts bubble and fizz
They glow neon blue
Get me drunk
In front of you

Passion is my poison

I write words at the rate my heart pumps blood
Mine have no rhythm or pulse
But they have a soul
A spirit with no plan in mind
No concept of time

Passion is my poison

And it turns my insides all different colors
A mood ring or a healing stone
I once thought I was a witch
Now I am convinced I am just passionate

Passion is my poison
The ocean moves me
And the leaves on the trees make decisions for me
A beautiful pair of eyes captivates me
And I often seem stoned when I’m sober

Passion is my poison

And I crave strange feelings
As most people crave chocolate or cheese
There is no luck.. Only fate
And my soul feels and sees things from other worlds

Passion is my poison

I can’t sleep at night
Some thoughts take time to come to a boil
And bubble over
There are intense feelings that have always incubated in my chest


Fish swim lost in time
Swim under the
Seaweed that reminds me of
The kitten eyes
That chased birds
Across canals
Holding killies in my palms
Calling out into the night
Like an animal that lost its way


Between your lips and my ears there is a nameless place- a disconnect-
an empty space_ one where thoughts are vacant with only remnants…. letters left behind by my free loving sentences that couldn’t see the dark gaps that were clouded with grays, blues, and deep greens:::_:::_:::_
These are empty words calling my name and I often forget to call myself__when you ask me about then and tonight I can’t recall now.

some pieces

the broken mirror
still resembles
your face
no matter how
many times
it is broken
over and over
each time
every time
with time
in the broken glass
the brokenness
in my eyes still
sees you

Electric confession

Lips connected,
hooked up,
plugged in
and shocked-

Electrical attraction,
transparent rationalization
only seen in the fringe of your hair

Dark rooms
lit up by eyes
to crawl ou and surrender

Lured from laughing wounds
they confessed,
the confusion fusing
over executed dreams


These words
are my sexy little red dress.
Wrapped around me tight,
form fitting,
revealing all
the syllables,
for the wondering
Outside the poet’s closet
they are vulnerable,
promiscuous, and risky.
Wild and dangerous,
seducing with
lips spilling poetry.
Wearing sentences
around their necks
they dance
out in public
kissing all
the non-believers
in hopes of poetic conversion


Tonight you’re on
my mind in
my bedroom
I grip
bed sheets
the warmth
of all the roses
and sweet dreams
you gave me
on park benches.




There is a mysterious texture to the paper
that composes the thick layers of the city.
The artists have wet and stuck them together
dampening the communication of words and sentences.
“Intricate,” he says
“I could’ve done it,” she says
“It’s genius,” the critics echo together
“What the hell is that?,” says the guy over there with the tie.


In the streets the crowds of plots are suffocating,
coming and going, up from, into, and over the ground.
The mortal storytellers step and stomp over little and defenseless plots
on the cement, in pocket books, and on pamphlets.
Confused plaid shirts made to be patterned, and formulated,
droop and hang from the bodies they desperately attempt to define.
There are animals in this city.
They dress themselves eccentrically in the chatter,
and speak irrationally with their fashion and through their eyes,
quickly on speeding subway trains, trying to keep up with the time.


Cluttered by the clutter, cluttering the thinking,
where, what, who,
how much, and when will it come?
Questions questioning the answers,
stripping the mind of the body’s certainty.
City dwellers thankfully living amongst debris of all kinds,
survivors sifting through the rubble of nothingness that leans, stacks, and builds.
Buildings outline the many passing minds and alter the lights of day and night.
“Which light is real?, “Ask the eyes of those who hide within these plots, layers, chatter, and clutter.
Are these eyes the eyes of truth?


The room has paintings on walls that are painted.
We move through the room with the other critics.
You and I staring at the colors, staring at each other, staring at the others
They say staring isn’t polite. I don’t feel right.
Something has changed, maybe it was all the fumes from the paint
and I must go now.


I’d love to talk to you, but when my thoughts move through
the crowd they become altered.
Forget what I said before.
It was polluted, they tested it and it turned purple.


Love notes seasonally
change color and fall
as they fell from
red lips and loosened
the gold locks of your hair.
I can hear the notes as they bloom,
sway in the breeze, paint our trees,
and float-
slowing time.
Mama don’t stop singing.

The guitar strings sing
lyrics that tune the room,
rock chairs,
and open the curtains
to let in the light
of the stars and moon.

Stories, histories, and myths
swim in rivers of rhythm
producing reflections of lives lived,
living, and lives to be born.
Stories are the pulse of
human existence.
Mama don’t stop singing.

The first time I heard you sing
a country song
it was about death.
I cried.
Songs end.
Our songs can never end.

Love notes grew
in the garden
on our bush of pink roses
that stuck me so many times
playing quarter notes into my life,
little drops of blood-
My own notes that made
me feel more alive.

The guitar is in the closet
waiting for the next line
to accompany the next love note,
change another season,
and give rhythm to this life.
Mama don’t stop singing.