Poetry

The Wonderings of a Wonder Woman

2012-01-28T15:03:00.000-08:00

In the air I smelled your scent
Floating among the clouds
Never imagined I’d be here
Falling fast
Leaving my imprints, like bullet holes
through love clouds
My arms are flexed,
Using my instincts to ward off all evil
Looking for civilians to shield from the pain of the world
I am stronger now that you left me to fight
the villains of the underworld,
the demons that spoiled our romantic, heroic fantasies
While you hide among the stars searching for answers
You remember how you got there..
Thinking yourself a hostage in our comic book-like partnership
My sources tell me you are one of many Supermans
Gallivanting around in your flashy costume
You played the part well, but you never wondered
I’d be too much woman for your superness to keep a hold of
Tonight I took refuge among the creatures of the jungle
Searching for the nature of the animal world
Wonder woman in all her wonderings
Never really believed she’d find her superman

Photo credit: http://www.jamesgunn.com/2011/02/17/sexy-wonder-woman-pinup-gallery-2/

Painting red

2012-01-23T14:35:00.000-08:00

I keep painting my nails red..
Red is love.
Red is Sacrifice.
Red is the color I see
When my heart breaks
And the red falls dull in the shimmery paint
Red because I’ve been driven mad
Red for the imperfections in my kiss
Red for the words you’d like to eliminate

from my conversation
Red paint for good luck
Red for the Chinese New Year
Red is the dragon I imagine blowing flames

My heart, I imagine red, like a fool for love
Wearing my heart red on my fingers and toes
Swinging and wiggling my free-loving self
Red as red can be
Red on my face

Embarrassed that I confessed my love
Into the cold, winter air
Later to warm up my red hands
Painting, painfully waiting

Born of Roses & Scorpions (From my next book, Reckless, coming soon..)

2012-01-23T08:12:00.000-08:00

Your Scorpio seductive

potions nurtured
My Libra baby bird feathers
showing me the fantasies

and magic powers
of being a woman.

My mother painted her lips red
with a red rose colored lipstick
attracting the darkest scorpions
spawned deep
in the souls

of men young and old.

Off her red lips

songbirds pranced
after flying from

the vines of her vocals.
In those songs, a baby bird,
saw the curves of the woman
I’d one day see in the mirror.
It was my mother...
only with a few exotic roots
She is a woman

with darker features.

The birds sung my heart

to sleep many nights
and carried me to places
where I was a sacred princess
treasured by a kingdom

of knights and maidens.
Her songs planted seeds
that would only grow

until much later,
flowering into wild

passion flowers

In bed I lay,
a rare bird,
naked with a sexy warrior.
Gazing into his rough skin
Thinking of where I came from...
I picture a beautiful red rose
in a romance with an onyx scorpion

MAKING HISTORY (a page from, my new collection of poems, Reckless..coming soon..)

2012-01-22T07:02:00.000-08:00

MAKING HISTORY

Looking around the room

I took notice of the artifacts

that define our era

and think of us as a part of the history of now;

We are creating an atom of eternity,

a sexy 21st century

love affair

with all the markings of its time

When you touch my naked face to your lips

I wonder if I could’ve been more passionate in past lifetimes,

had I lived without

all our conveniences and luxuries

This could be all we know or an illusion,

this free-loving feeling that twists

my thoughts

all the while bound and tied down

by exotic and diverse things in this city

like lace ties and handcuffs

You’re mine with the press of a button,

a click, or a text

Its modern sorcery

We are equally objectified,

Changing clothes,

Wearing costumes for each other

quickly becoming just another device

Replaceable,

like my digital camera and cell phone

I look into your body language searching for the possibility of camouflaged romance,

trying my hardest to see traces of it

like an optical illusion

in the lines of your flexed arms

Photo Credit: Calvin Klein

Imperfections

2012-01-21T07:04:00.000-08:00

I stroke the letters of these sweet syllables as I erect the sleeping

prose Until it comes to life... These words in my head were seeds

planted under the richest earth...soiled under sheets of smudged

paper that smell of sex and liquor.

Words from a lover are the Word for a hopeless romantic libra.

The heavy ones cause my scales to tip. I RoCk uNbAlAnCeD.

But finally find equilibrium

when I slam a pen to a free flying strip of paper.

Prose, a colored feather, I weave into my free flying hair that

bends and swirls where it wants when it wants to do it. An extension

of myself. A medium for heightened senses. A release from the

confines of a tightly bounded hair tie.

Roses without thorns may not be roses at all, but impostures of

a sort and far more dangerous. The natural ones are often long

stem and wild. I stare at you funny when you hand me a striped

love symbol- naked roses.

You've entered into my greenhouse. And now my imperfections

are showing. Your prompted to examine my nature that looks so

perfect from a distance. A nature sprung from wild seed, lonely

moons, and unpurified water.

Cut at the stem, I'm analyzed through your lens. Under these bright

lights I am revealed, seen as you like, a stranger, a danger to

your health, poison as ivy. I look deep into the mirror, poised, under

vanity lights searching for my natural self.

photo © Sarah Klockars-Clauser
for openphoto.net CC:PublicDomain

Lit

2012-01-19T06:48:00.000-08:00

LIT

I would have turned up the flame if I knew it was going to burn so slow...

There are no next times, no. Only past times screwing new ones,

but I can let them go-

you know, when the wind takes lit ashes

they look like fireflies in the dark

and I have learned to gladly dance in them.

Photo credit: http://weheartit.com/dannyhorst

Chocolate Bubbles

2012-01-18T06:40:00.000-08:00

My heart makes me a foreigner.

Without language,

I bathe in a tub of strawberry cream

Blowing dark chocolate

bubbles off my palms

dreaming my reality moons away.

Published!

2011-08-26T06:03:00.000-07:00

I haven't been posting much here because I've been busy trying to put my poems together. It's finally finished and I couldn't be more excited!

Thanks so much to S. Clarke, from DreamWriteNow, for editing and doing a lot of hard work for Like a Fairy in Love. Check out his beautiful site devoted to the arts.

You can get a copy of Like a Fairy in Love online.

Mourning

2011-06-06T19:39:00.000-07:00

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,

Sometimes I feel I am invisible,

Other times I am a chameleon

on this couch

Mourning

I crush into my own rubble.

They question my stability

Trying all natural remedies

they wont turn off the lights

that sting my wounds

incapable of clearing these red eyes

they are afraid of my pain.

I lay the fetal position

dreaming of head stones and dirt-

I am clawing at the top of a coffin

covered in mud in the rain.

Language: Part One

2010-01-24T09:18:00.000-08:00

At first glance the morning appeared to be still
A sudden- BOOM! POP!
Silence. And a tickle to the eardrums
Chirping birds
Chatting loudly; a rapid fire of sound through the trees
Each sensory bullet is separate and distinguished.
Disperse….- Converge
A tumultuous linguistic relationship.
Engaging in a syntax dance over and over again:
Sounds flying over and under, twisting, spinning, stepping, clapping
Symphonizing and harmonizing:
Bobbing below, above, and in between the others
Tick. Meep. Cheep. Iii. Eeet. Tiii. Keey. Cuuu.
A structured chaos fluttering through my ears
Stuck in a whirl wind of sound
I reach for free flying feathers

Photo by Im on Tabouring posted on Flickr.com

Breezy still

2010-01-23T17:05:00.000-08:00

Candles light the stairs
Reflecting little mysteries
on stone walls.

The green ruffles of my dress
bounce.
Dancing as I ascend;
tickled by romance.

The summer breeze blows still
as our soft words slowly
bake under coal lamps.

Photo by Dysonstar posted on Flickr.com

Cattails in the wind

2009-06-22T18:29:00.000-07:00

A predictable sequence of events

life

Were often asked to walk this line...
...well in the direction it is going,
of course.

This line is drawn
with much resistance and disappointment,
as we are governed by the cyclicality of our inescapable
humanness.

It is often the humanness subconsciously
guiding us to cry to nature and wonder
by rivers that overflow with confusion.
Many measure the length of our strait legs,
while others notice the strait cattails bending in the wind

Inspired by "line", a prompt on Weekend Wordsmith

Photo by donsutherland1 on flickr.com

Blue sprouts

2009-06-21T08:31:00.000-07:00

Humidity lurks at the surface

of thirsty pupils and suddenly

dives,

piercing,

slicing,

pouring

when blue buds
magically sprout

and then shoot
towards the powder blue sky

as magic dust does
from fairy wands

when a fairy demands romance
in a thunderstorm

Image by Peggy Collins at Flickr.com

Thanks Sara from Poets Who Blog

2009-01-30T16:33:00.000-08:00

Thanks for featuring my poem, Eyes for the stars, in your fabulous January Poetry Collection

Winter rain

2009-01-15T18:41:00.000-08:00

January 11, minutes before 2AM. The room is a shallow blue with areas of deep violet.My eyes dive and rise in the flickering street lights making reflections in the mirror on the opposite wall.

The sky rumbles. The radiator gurgles loudly in response. I can almost make out words. Is it English? No, definitely Russian. I whisper: yes.. come in

Rushing rain, there is a winter waterfall outside my window dragging loose pebbles. Tap, tap, tick. This room is a closed shell with pearl interiors.

A mermaid attempts to hibernate, but lies sleeplessly clutching dried starfish. In the ceiling I see the dark uncertainty of the deepest sea.

Photo by -Antoine- on flickr

Candy Cane Love

2008-12-22T18:58:00.000-08:00

Reds & greens
kiss as they twist
to the last jolly lick-
slipping through
the fingers
of the woman with the peppermint flavored
lips, white lights
flickering behind
her cherry colored
dress, she stares into the chocolate with the green tin wrapping until
it begins to resemble
mistletoe as she makes
two candy canes kiss
and forms a heart<3

Poem inspired by Writer's Island Prompt #11- "Slipped through my fingers"

This beautiful photo was taken by Janoid, posted on Flickr

Thanks 15 Minute Poet

2008-10-25T22:09:00.000-07:00

Thanks 15MinutePoet.com for featuring my poem Honesty

Drops on golden wings

2008-10-18T13:55:00.000-07:00

Dreamflies often
rise and flood reality
Shielding what is
with gold wings
and cricket-type sounds
piercing a hole into
a well of imagination
where words swim
free of prey and bait

Drops of war, hate, pain, and greed
rain green, red, and black
There is an echo
of pitter patter
on this golden curtain
but only a few words shudder

Photo by GirlsEyeView on Flickr
Prompt for Sunday Scribblings

Eyes for the stars

2008-10-17T09:31:00.000-07:00

His eye was the kind that bent and twisted
with a liquid appearance,
deep and shimmery
like bay water at night
when the light bounces
off its calm surface

On contact
any celestial body
could shed its rough surface
and orbit its infinite center
as a planet does around stars.

Photo by won7ders on flickr

Poets Who Blog: PWB Poetry Collection- September

2008-09-30T11:53:00.000-07:00

Flooding was one of many poems included in this great collection of poetry:

Poets Who Blog: PWB Poetry Collection- September

Thanks PWB

Flooding

2008-09-03T13:14:00.000-07:00

Large drops of rain
Don’t just drip,
But roll and twist
Around sopping wet
Curls.

She believes
smudged eye liner
changes her identity
And for just a minute
She is somebody else

Twisting her body
Spewing random prose
packed with venom
Her seductive whispers
pierce through
the tropical storm

When her eyes catch
a familiar victim
immediately she is horrified
when she is caught
wildly dancing
to thunder and lightening
during a flood warning

Photo by virexmachina at flickr

Essentially it is Sour

2008-08-24T09:35:00.000-07:00

“It is essential to speak English and speak it well,”
said the brunette sitting across the café holding a beautiful berry tart.

"This is America honey. And we speak English, not American or American-ish.
That seems to be what you speak. It is as if English curdled and turned sour.”

A young Chinese man turned from a neighboring table to get a glance
at the lecture to see the audience being an empty chair and lonely coffee cup.

“I guess it is a disagreeable sign,” he thought. "It does read: please take precaution, cuidado piso mojado,يمكنك ان تدخل في."

He looked at the gray haired woman as colorful crumbs fell from her mouth, shrugged, and resumed his catnap after turning up the volume on his iPod.

POEFUSION Prompt: essential, sour, absent disagreeable, catnap

Summer Gazebo Reading

2008-08-19T05:48:00.001-07:00

Thanks to all my family and friends who came out for the Summer Gazeboo Reading Series last night. I really loved the support.

And a special thanks to the Iovinos for hosting this event all summer long.

Here are the poems I read last night:

1. Golden cages

2. Starfish constellations

3. Capsules of gemstones

4. Crowded

(Sorry..Mom and Kid Bro.. had to snag this one!)

Photos by Tony Iovino

Honesty

2008-08-18T06:00:00.000-07:00

A summer leaf
sweating
drips of dew

Under a tree,
leaf colored eyes reflect dried dirt
yearning for a sun shower

The heavy air smells of bark and maple syrup
that can stick to the ribs
like comfort food on the next inhale

Photo : "leaf dew abstract" by Lani Barbitta

Heat Warning Haiku

2008-08-17T05:52:00.000-07:00

Burning trail
A snail burial ground
Cobble stones

Prompt by Read Write Poem

Photo: "Snail graveyard" by Sander Copier

Indifferent service

2008-07-03T12:32:00.000-07:00

Indifferent
made a potent
neon-blue concoction
without intention
serving reason
stirred
not shaken
salt on the rim

Prompt from 3WW

Cactus fields

2008-05-13T18:57:00.001-07:00

My little girl eyes
cracked dry smiles
tearing in sand storms

Through the night I watched
lights of passing cars
flash across my walls
imagining
lightning flickering
on the cactus fields
you left me in
to learn about
companionship and love…..

The same heart beats
through sun showers,
but gazes into the cloud smeared
black and blue sky
remembering the emptiness
of the words that
made you not only
a father,
but a damning prophet

PROMPT
One Single Impression: Deserted

floating on my wings

2008-05-08T05:48:00.000-07:00

In a lust-cocoon
submerged,
wrapped, spun
and afloat
in the deep
dark colors
around your pupils

Until it all got too heavy
I took a deep breath
closed my eyes
and sunk to the bottom
holding my dream stones
tight in my palms

Silent serenity
and wordless magic
brought
metamorphosis
to my lips
and I can now
Navigate rivers
I thought I’d only wonder about

Paddling lying on
my glossy wings
smudged and kissed
with blue-green,
purple and yellow
pucker-prints
to lands with white sand,
roses and doves

Totally Optional Prompts: Transformation

Thanks!

Abandoned petals

2008-04-30T18:09:00.000-07:00

I thought: Empty

when I saw the red petals
so abruptly
abandon the stem of tulip
you picked
off the side of the highway

They fell simultaneously
like a curtain,
a magic trick,
the unveiling of
a passionate belly dancer’s red veil.

Like you looked when you
let your towel
fall to the floor
at the sight of me
lying looking
with that face
I give when I feel ignored.

Thanks 3WW for the prompt: Empty, Highway, Ignored

Featured on Poets Who Blog

2008-04-28T11:25:00.000-07:00

Poets Who Blog has featured my poem, Hold my bones, for Day 28 of National Poetry Month.

Check out their site to find lots of great poets online.

Thanks again to Poets Who Blog for allowing me to share my work!

Thanks Epiphany: Amour Habito Intus Vos!

2008-04-27T10:58:00.000-07:00

I want to send a thank you to Cynthia for selecting me to be the guest poet of the week on her blog, Epiphany: Amour Habito Intus Vos.

She featured my poem stranger equals.

Pre-heat the oven

2008-04-26T11:09:00.000-07:00

Yummy
cupcake
candy
and sprinkle
me pretty
but not too plump

Bumpy
cookie
give me
dark chocolate
kisses
smeared
and gooey

Goody
fruits
so sweet
make me
loopy cherries
squeeze
apple crumbs
in my palms

Shake,
mix and
pour,
throw away
the instructions
with the box
and bake me
tastefully

Dragon secrets

2008-04-17T16:49:00.000-07:00

Dangerous flirt,
you read every word
Before they were given
the chance to
be conceived

Sweet poser,
you wore
the costume
Of a royal
lover
green,
gold,
and purple

Wishful knight,
I remember
your noble
fairytale-like
walks
across
the floor
in the dark

Dear slayer,
I was
a dragon
wearing a fallen
princess’ costume,
but tonight I write
by candle light
unmasked
sticking my tongue
out of my fire
breathing
mouth

covered in butterflies

2008-04-16T05:47:00.000-07:00

You are the black butterflies that
transform me,
beautify me,
infatuate me
and softly consume all of me.

Hold my bones

2008-04-15T18:14:00.000-07:00

Doctor me-
hold my bones

Carry them
in your pocket
for just a few minutes
before you put me under
the light of your microscope

Hold tight and twist
insert one
through the space in
between your ribs
and then diagnose
prescribe a dose

Think of my stare
and my running eyes
as I am put deep under-
where I can feel pain no longer

My words melted,
dripped from all
my crevices and drained
through the holes in your head

Check-up
on me
doctor,

but don’t forget
to hold my bones

Thanks Poets Who Blog!

2008-04-15T12:56:00.000-07:00

I am very excited to be one of this weeks featured poets on Poets Who Blog!

Check out the 3 other great poets that I had the pleasure of being featured with.

neon eyes, starless skies

2008-04-14T05:47:00.000-07:00

Your room was a space ship
And you were my abductor
The bright lights
made my dark eyes neon

The empty communication,
lit lost translations
in this constellation of souls

Tonight my dark sky is still starless,
And you can still imagine me
an alien-

UFO, you shot out of the sky
My voice left words behind
disintegrating, my fragments returning home

C&J Wedding Haikus

2008-04-13T16:45:00.000-07:00

Pink Brut
Tuxedos on floating gazebos
Red and orange fruit

Champagne rain
Purple rose pedals
Banana fondue

Saxaphone
Bustles and bows
Love song

Letters to you

2008-04-11T16:51:00.000-07:00

I love letters
but I really hate this one
passionately engraved
into rough paper

With closed eyes
I trace the characters and symbols
several times over
dashing, dotting, and crossing
before sealing it in an envelope
labeled: fragile

I was right
to write it out of me
slowly and carefully
translating the memory
of your face
as you tried
to sound me out

Freckled wings

2008-04-10T05:34:00.000-07:00

In the dark you looked
on at the ocean
resembling
a butterfly
with freckled ivory skin
and speckled dreams in your eyes

for H

Capsules of gemstones

2008-04-09T18:52:00.000-07:00

A poet laughs in the dark
the bliss of pen to paper

Lines lie under the mattress
in a golden notebook,
a golden time capsule,
a prose vault holding
ruby emotions,
amber conversations,
and emerald green scenery
to entertain a curious imagination
with a love for genuine gemstones

A poet laughs in the dark
the bliss of reading old poems

chocolate bubbles

2008-04-08T18:43:00.000-07:00

My heart makes me a foreigner.
Without language,
I bathe in a tub of strawberry cream
blowing dark chocolate bubbles off my palms
dreaming my reality moons away

Carnivals and jungles

2008-04-07T05:40:00.000-07:00

There are things about my mind
you will never understand
at times it is a carnival by the bay
with wild peacocks and psychic readings,
midgets and mimes.

Or how I have different eyes
One that instinctively captures
colored curves
in black and white rooms
and another that sees
clarity in layers of spilled paint---

After we wake
I still remain in places
I had been in my dreams
and wonder where I could go
on earth to find them one day

Over coffee I stare at the steam
imagining myself sliding
down a fluffy slide
after climbing a cloudy staircase

We look at each other with confusion
and I think myself a purple striped tiger
in an imitation jungle

Thanks for the Monday Mural prompt POEFUSION

Sunday Haikus to you

2008-04-06T05:45:00.000-07:00

Cloudy day
A black kitten cries
by gray paint

I fear
My own darkness
my heart

what if the
moments question
the what ifs

I never knew
my own vulnerability
in the ocean

comfort fruits

2008-04-05T07:50:00.000-07:00

You love avocados---to pierce its dark bumpy skin and slice into its green sliminess
They don’t grow in this hemisphere…at least I thought they never did
I notice many foriegn fruits lately
and your pink lips that look like papayas in the kitchen
when you stir and shake the pots and pans
over the gasoline stove that clicks and makes me dance
under these white ceilings comforting as a clear sky
dreaming of canopy beds in brick houses

Thanks POEFUSION for the prompt!

Serene beaches

2008-04-04T07:07:00.000-07:00

This bed is an island
and in a minute it may be
a cloud or a hammock in a bamboo room

My dark hours are serene now
When I close my eyes
I bathe in butterfly wings and bay water

Incense burns on the window sill
spilling smoke across my chanting lips
killing the vowels before they can become
man eating sentences

Peacefully I sleep on my beach
where I once walked endlessly
through fields of dead cattails

The freeze

2008-04-03T15:19:00.000-07:00

As much as I hate the cold-
I love the freeze,
under a frosty blanket with a warmer anticipation

Savoring moments of numbness and fear-
The bitter cold
alters the psychological
and brings you unnervingly
close to the physical

Smokey illusions-
Through white breaths
there are flashing lights of memories

Golden cages

2008-04-02T05:59:00.000-07:00

Eyes lined with glittery shadow confessed her sadness in my kitchen over a glass of Johnny Walker Black. Just a few months ago she spent years living in an Egyptian condo.

He was an older white man who needed a translator, caretaker, and occasional lover.
The American businessman rescued her from a common life at the ripe age of eighteen.
She occasionally walked among her people, flashing diamonds and designer clothing.

"I was like a bird in a beautiful golden cage. Fifteen years...I had everything, but money doesn't buy you happiness.”

Her voice cracked and she took a sip of Jack.

“I would give it all back and live as a poor Egyptian," she cried. "I wasted my young years drinking by myself in the fanciest of hotels in France, Italy, Spain..”

Later that week, closing her eyes on Rockaway beach she felt the souls of pharaohs and dark rivers in her heart. In her sand there are leopard fish skeletons with rose petal hearts.

Her pink lips part under her sparkling eyes. “Here I am in New York City," she thought. "I have nothing. I am free..”

Metamorphosis

2008-04-01T18:30:00.000-07:00

Butterflies breathe sleepless nights
into my bedroom:
Reverse-metamorphosis
bred a field of caterpillar pens
and now it’s a writing orgy.

Dream flies

escape from my stomach,
wrap themselves

in sheets of composition paper

in search of new cocoons

National Poetry Month: NaPoWriMo

2008-04-01T06:36:00.000-07:00

For National Poetry Month, I am on a poem marathon in participation with readwritepoem's NaPoWriMo.

Also, check out my other blog, Love to be Inspired, highighting some of my favorite poets this month.

Check back here for an updated list for April.

4/1 Metamorphosis
4/2 Golden cages
4/3 The freeze
4/4 Serene beaches
4/5 comfort fruits
4/6 Sunday haikus to you
4/7 Carnivals and jungles
4/8 Chocolate bubbles
4/9 Capsules of gemstones
4/10 Freckled wings
4/11 Letters to you
4/13 C&J wedding haikus
4/14 neon eyes, starless skies
4/15 Hold my bones
4/16 Covered in Butterflies
4/17 Dragon secrets

One of those days

2008-03-30T15:09:00.000-07:00

Today isn’t one of those daisy-teacup days, but a blue crystal goblet with a drippy and dreary purple ice-cream night in its near future.

Our Torrid Love (a work to be continued)

2008-03-30T15:06:00.001-07:00

Our Torrid Love-hungry-famished-destiny-altered the mind-a scavenger with heightened senses- pounced like a starved lion-unable to feel-the body- swam in deprivation- anticipated deconstruction of a perfect someone-in each other.

I burned in your eyes all those nights under street lights. We took shots to numb it all, though I still felt your hurt crawling beneath my skin. Your scars cried tears into mine when we fell together. I held you higher and continued to descend. I lost myself in an empty space where words can only be thought and never born. Real passion was nonexistent- this was a fiction, lost among so many others. I ignored your stare and clinched as it salted my crevices that used to kiss yours. My dimness said it all.. did you hear me?

Our Torrid Love-Pressed our-fire reds, bubblegum pinks, purple plums- our lips- that have tasteless memories-but through all the grays I can still remember the colors.

In response to a prompt over at Writer's Island

Starfish Constellations

2008-03-26T17:45:00.000-07:00

I wonder about the window
that’s collecting dust as the leaves
are changing colors
close my eyes and hold a seashell
to my ear
listening the ocean
call me back to the beach house
where I can watch the moments
float round and round
in a summer time capsule

In the room above the house
oars rested in fishnets draped
across the ceiling
holding starfish constellations
It was a watch tower
between the sea and moon
Where the sandy breeze tickled my face
Sometimes I can still taste the sea salt

My dark eyes often transport me
I explore the bookshelves of thick texts
with old brown covers that dim the room
You pour me some wine
and I sit close while you read
your favorite poem
about a bird
by Edgar Allen Poe
chasing each word with your finger
as you read them syllable by syllable

On cold nights like tonight
I lie under a deep sea of blue comforters
envisioning the starfish constellations
And I whisper poe's lines:
“the raven sitting lonely…
spoke only that one word, as if his soul
in that one word he did out pour”

fermentation of the fornication

2008-03-07T05:08:00.000-08:00

Fornication, sounds like fermentation:
making alcohol out of yeast,
although vinification
sounds like a more sensual route to follow
right to the bottom of the bottle
where you’ve found you can use it like a telescope,
but only loose sight of the moon.

This fermentation of the fornication
Confuses you ---
As you once believed it to be a sensation
to create an indentation that was truly…You

At this hour
the intoxication is drunk off you-
a night demon:
possessed and used

Forget it all.
We’ll tie you to the mattress
and wait for the sun to perform an exorcism
or a plain over-exposure
to burn away the possibility of any identification-

Who are you?
The one who is so startled
upon waking to a blank ceiling
with the urge to fill in the empty spaces
that make you and that ceiling seem closer

Rising suddenly looking for some
indication of where you left
your lace underwear,
finding it in your shoe after giving up
running for an open door you catch
a glimpse of a stranger in the mirror
and realize it’s you.

White dawn

2008-03-05T06:11:00.000-08:00

During the stranger-hours between the sheets
flickering eyes dream in time
breaking and entering into moments
we believed to be asleep

My dream flies
flutter into this dark
You can see their colors
when others saw none

This is your favorite time
In between the edge of dusk and scaling the AM climb
You love to float towards the tip of the white dawn
And hold tight as we descend to its bottom

stranger equals

2008-03-05T05:57:00.000-08:00

My dysfunctional kiss is missed on your twisted lips,
but mine can only pucker and bloom

A stranger at your expense
swimming in your flaws
I couldn’t get enough of the aloofness

Stranger equals Freedom... Once I thought

When dead strings swung from my heart
I dangled
like a bungee jumper
excited, free, yet attached
thirsty for more polluted air

That was you-
don’t be fooled,
but be aware:
There was always someone else
staring at you in the dark
intoxicated deep eyes
worn by a zombie woman

My finger on your lip
Silent witchery
Freed the white lies
from your caves of fantasy.
They took to the sky
like wild bats wearing butterfly masks

You asked me again
But I can no longer lie
You’ve got no fiction in your kiss
Only words mumbled in secret code
Heavy and broken when they hit the floor

Stranger equals Prisoner

Nuclear kisses

2008-02-13T08:11:00.001-08:00

Nuclear kisses--

Deformed lips

Seduce, subtly produce
a future of promises

Misconstrued

…Thorns….

Pulse,
as the ruby cactuses planted in the yard
are resurrected
in death under suns,
by sons- slaves to a dessert

Marching through dark with imaginary camels
camouflaged with whites, blacks, browns, and yellows

All individuals are unidentifiable

…dripping red under fire...

Beach hair

2007-12-07T16:50:00.002-08:00

Sunning my face
under a city street light
soaking in winter raindrops
I refuse to wash the beach out of my hair

Guiding flags

2007-12-07T16:50:00.001-08:00

Between red flags in sand dunes
and yellow in the field of cattails and bamboo
I walk forever wrapped in white flags-
surrendering to the bottomless sky

Cookies on the beach

2007-12-07T16:29:00.001-08:00

Sunning until I bake
like a cookie
I’ve been called delicious
but I am a guilty pleasure
the enemy of every fat girl
Happy round girl don’t cry
this cookie doesn’t rise, but deep fries
Done over and over again
past the timer
Lying flat and crisp
under the oven light
burnt, dehydrated, inedible
inevitably suspect to any cup of milk,
even that imposter-Silk
Imagination only can bring
the sensation-
Sweet
I am no treat to meet
There are no secret
ingredients to soften
the absurdity
of a cookie
left on the beach

Burnt

2007-11-30T17:34:00.000-08:00

Your mosh-pit is silent now.The crowd has polluted and left an empty lot letting the fires that wove to a metal song burn to the ground. I walk through the soot and ash of a short lived chaos high off the toxins in the air and playing with the devil.

A hallow tree

2007-11-30T17:25:00.001-08:00

Warm November leaves color the breeze and brush the door.
The hallow room whistles to the lonely mattress on the floor.

The emptiness incubates in here, grows on furniture, and creeps up my arms.
A moldy isolation makes memories out of the fungus that bubbles over my white paint.

Over my notebook I draft the hours, cut each minute down to seconds, reclaiming time lost. A hallow tree peers into my window as if it were watching an art exhibit.

Turtlenecks

2007-11-30T17:21:00.001-08:00

Your guitar lyrics wore turtlenecks in my presence as my deep eyes stood naked watching you stand with your arms crossed waiting for the poetry to seep from every crevice of my body until I was dehydrated.

Nude November

2007-11-30T17:15:00.001-08:00

The trees undress
allowing the moonlight
to penetrate through
the curtains,
color my face,
and put a spotlight
on my secrets,
fears,
and questions
that can no longer
hide in the foliage
when I whisper
them into the dark wind.

The branches look weak now
And so do I-
Bare and skinny arms
reaching out to the sky,
giving it all to autumn-
awaiting winter

I remember
many Novembers
in slow motion,
fragments,
and isolated
moments
playing over again-
The shivering,
As I mimicked,
the shaking trees,
exposing,
still posing,
nude,
through the fall,
as the crispy
colored leaves
outside
are loosened
and taken.

Tonight
stripped already,
I strip some more
in between blank walls
And now I am but a
transparent sentence.

I hate my name
from beginning to end.
I write it down,
peal and tear
off each letter,
shake them up,
spell other words,
and try to say it backwards.
It is an empty word
that only disappears
in an empty time
when there is little to fill
the barren spaces
on the clock
in a month that passes
slower each time.

A sunny wreck

2007-10-26T05:17:00.000-07:00

I always wanted
to save you
from the wreckage
of the past
and the unfulfilled dreams
of the future,

Your heart that will hurt forever
lying next to mine
in a bruised field
where explosions
have trapped
them beneath debris
and keeps them in the dark
breathing in toxic fumes.

My fighting eyes
would take wounds to rescue you,
pull you from this burning wreck
that keeps the mind
from defining-
Free,
the burning
that fills real
bright and airy rooms
with dark and rusty metal furniture.

The wind is always dusty,
I walk in its potent cloud
woozy and doped-up.
Yes,
we are both wounded,
cut-up,
stitched-up,
and re-opened,
but simply by default.

As I watch you get
stronger I find
the truth is
I can’t save you,
but have come to
learn from you and depend
on you-
unlike I have any other.
It makes me fearful
to think I would ever say:
“What would I do without you?”

I still hear
the whispers and the screams.
I still feel my bones shake
and my insides turn green,
but I can still walk
and even laugh
as the voice whispers again:
you are a fighter
When I think of you
I believe it this time.

Black Sand

2007-10-18T17:56:00.000-07:00

I kissed Spain last night,
fell asleep

on an empty

train platform
dreaming of a beach

of black sand
and polished rose quartz stones

The strange little things you do

2007-10-11T17:50:00.001-07:00

The strange little things you do
After watching close
I noticed I do them too
The weird and impulsive things you say
or the way you grip onto
the hand of those you love
until it hurts
You’re emotional and over-sensitive
I even hurt like you too, but can never tell you
I am incapable
Though my fragility is invisible
My body rough like stucco and solid as cement
You cry and tell me you’ll never let go
Look at me with those brown eyes
that are like mine
inside I crumble
and I say to myself- finally.

Cosmic Nights

2007-09-30T07:41:00.000-07:00

Writing-
Fabricating
cosmic nights
with back strokes of a pen.

Swimming-
In my own words
paralyzed
by the moon’s reflection.

Floating-
Forever
on a letter or two
at the top of the ocean.

Photo by eye2eye at flickr

Underwater

2007-09-26T19:44:00.001-07:00

There are rocks on the bottom of my ocean’s floor and I refuse to walk anymore, but only swim underwater with my eyes open until you grab my hand again and pull me back through the passing wave, back to you.

Oceans in the Sky

2007-09-26T19:42:00.000-07:00

There are connections
that only can happen in the dark.
Whispers from other worlds
with moments of silence
between slips of the tongue.
Undercovers wondering
where it all goes from here or
where it could have came from
as the wandering
wanders away
from all its plans
wishing there was at least
one thought
that hadn’t been stripped
and tossed to the floor.
It then all becomes an afterthought
and I look in the sky
as if it were the ocean
and I was looking
for flying fish.

Photo by pwnedbyryan on Flickr

Caribbean dreams

2007-09-16T07:24:00.001-07:00

A New Yorker
Who dreams
With a Caribbean soul

Pours out their heart
Solely to the ocean
Sings out loud on crowded trains

Loves to dance in heavy rain
Then craves a warm fire
On a summer night

Plays in the riptide
To forget and remember
Surrendering to fairytales

Summer Reading

2007-09-16T07:08:00.000-07:00

Tony Iovino, the creator and host of The Summer Gazebo Reading Series, put together a collage of all the performers.

I am so glad I had the opportunity to participate in this series. Follow the link to read bios of the incredibly talented participants.

Thanks again Tony!

(This photo and all others were taken by Ali Iovino and Betsy Transom)

Here are the poems I had the pleasure to read: Love Notes , Conversion, Madrid, and Crowded

One empty. One full.

2007-09-14T17:47:00.000-07:00

That bottle of red wine-
the one we saved for a rainy day,
a sexy hour,
a dim light,
that bottle that turned me on.
It floated far from my mind,
holding imaginary love notes,
but it’s only a bottle of old grapes
to get me tipsy,
inspire a little poetry.
Two glasses left empty
proved it all phony,
left a lonely bottle on a dark
pantry shelf collecting dust.
I feel alone
tonight,but began to drink it by myself.

Lit

2007-09-13T17:24:00.000-07:00

I would have turned up the flame if I knew it was going to burn so slow...

There are no next times, no. Only past times screwing new ones,

but I can let them go-

you know, when the wind takes lit ashes

they look like fireflies in the dark

and I have learned to gladly dance in them.

Writer’s Dew

2007-09-12T20:28:00.000-07:00

The dewy air tonight drowns my inner dialogue
My pen grows heavey and falls

I can only see shadows and faces dance across my walls
silent like old black and white films

Buried a Jew

2007-09-12T20:00:00.000-07:00

Sometimes when I close my eyes
I walk in my mourning clothes
to visit tombs I have never seen,
searching for the mausoleum of my grandfather.
To kill his living memory,
to bury him with the floating
spirits of his Barese peasant ancestors
who prayed everyday slaving away by the Adriatic Sea
without a thought that one hundred years later
I would be here.
A mutt,
mixed with the Anglos,
the Micks, and the Jews
stripped of their Barese last name,
not living for the land,
but riding on a dirty subway train-
Underground I sat waiting desperately to see
a man before he closed his dark brown eyes forever,
went back to the lands of his fathers,
to reclaim his name,
to repent for his dirty deeds,
to wipe away all the disgust
he held for his heritage in life-
Behind a glass window,
It was so simple.
So quick.
Just a few words
from a woman in white
who told me politely,
“he was transferred”
and she will never know
how I shattered
as I replied, “thank you.”
Moved from the hospital bed,
he was dead-
And I went back underground,
my soul at civil war,
exploding and destroying
until it stopped and I felt dead.
Helpless.Betrayed.Disowned.
In darkness
I felt God, but it still hurt.
I felt God, even though
I am not a catholic,
protestant, a Jew,
baptized, or confirmed.
My grandfather’s poor Barese soul
watched with his fathers
as he was given a Jewish funeral.
I can only imagine
his burial site,
unless I can catch him as he floats
around in my dreams
to show me the way back there,
but for now my eyes will only over flow
when I see the funeral card,
my grandmother framed,
but cannot read because it is written in Hebrew.

There's a Soul Down There

2007-09-07T18:41:00.001-07:00

There’s a soul down there
That I touch when my soul’s energy finds yours
It is somewhere
Maybe behind your ribs that cages you in this misery

When I am silent only your soul knows I’m there
and never comes through
I often try speak to it, but when your soul
moves up to your lips, past your breath,
it dances with humanity and your personality fucks it up

I dream of days when the sun reflected off of the snow,
turning our faces and noses red digging for things that were
frozen to the ground.
My eyes couldn’t see then, but through a narrow scope
finally I became tainted myself
Now even my soul is silenced
resting up against my heart

There’s a soul down there, I know
Ours only play on a different snow
Each day my soul presses on my heart
and I feel myself crying inside,
stifling the soul from the world outside

Casualties (working it out still)

2007-09-06T17:38:00.000-07:00

We are all casualties of time and war.
Some of us hide our scars,
Others turn them into tattoos and worship every mark.
The clock ticks and I only hear chains rattle.
Each day another minute is really taken away and every freedom
only appears to be freer when it is becoming more fabricated and fictional.
I can smell the smoke and see it before it rises over the horizon,
but I will never know who lit the fire.

We are casualties, who are really ghost soldiers,
fighters with imaginary swords,
dying for our blinded fathers
who have taught us to see too much color
and killing for the words that have been marked on us
before we were anything to mark.

We are casualties, I told God.
And I knew since I was just a small child
that with time I would only bear more scars
and have deeper wounds that would never close.
That I would look into the eyes of strangers
and first be afraid. And next feel sorrow.
That I could hold out my hand, but know it could be cut off.
And that love wears out, but pain only incubates and regenerates.
That I will cry inside until I die for the false belief that there can be unity
and peace between two souls.

We are casualties underneath the armor.
Our eyes look innocent, but if you look close
they are broken up with little cracks and imperfections that let light in.
These eyes are blinded by many skies.
Blinded by God’s words that they never heard themselves, but were given as hand-me-downs.
And blinded again by the distant screams of the wounded who seek revenge from lives before.
We blindly walk on a planet that is stale and has hardened,
sealing in tears, blood, and other fossilized ammunition.

We are casualties and we continue to walk among the wreckage.
We invent what we can only conceptualize as beautiful,
painting beauty mostly at the expense of another.
There is a war always already waging even when we think we're cleaning up.
Yet we hold on tight to things that allow us to sleep at night
As we dream in worlds that don’t exist.

Grasshoppers and an Opal Rose

2007-08-30T19:46:00.000-07:00

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

2007-08-30T19:25:00.001-07:00

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

Escape

2007-08-30T19:00:00.000-07:00

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

2007-08-30T18:54:00.001-07:00

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

Swimming in the Dark

2007-08-20T21:27:00.001-07:00

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

Mourning

2007-08-20T21:26:00.001-07:00

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

2007-08-20T20:54:00.001-07:00

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

lost

2007-08-20T20:53:00.000-07:00

Sea-tears
Fishing-lines
Bait-lies
Fish swim lost in time
Lucky-Fish
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

Gaps

2007-08-20T20:49:00.000-07:00

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

2007-08-20T20:47:00.002-07:00

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

Electric confession

2007-08-20T20:47:00.001-07:00

Confess
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
whisper.
Begging
confessions
to crawl ou and surrender

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

Conversion

2007-08-20T20:46:00.001-07:00

These words
are my sexy little red dress.
Wrapped around me tight,
form fitting,
revealing all
the syllables,
magnetized
for the wondering
eye.
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

Madrid

2007-08-20T20:45:00.000-07:00

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

Corinne

Crowded

2007-08-20T20:43:00.000-07:00

1

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.

2

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.

3

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?

4

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.

5

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

2007-08-20T20:41:00.000-07:00

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.

Kissing Flakes

2006-02-14T18:39:00.000-08:00

His cold
Avalanche words
Freeze
My
Winter lips
Now I
Kiss
Flakes
Under the influence
Of hypothermia

Mr. Winter

2006-01-07T18:38:00.000-08:00

Mr. Winter
You haunted
My dreams
Even when
I was awake

Snow
Froze
My nose

You Frostbit my Senses
When you iced me over in lies

Promises
broke
like
the
icicles
hanging
From
your
icy
finger-
tips

Mr. Winter
Your eyes are dark

You draw beautiful images
That crumble and crackup
Creating dangerous situations

I was found frozen
In your conversation
Too slow
To avoid
Decapitation

Your irrational world
Cut off - - - my rationalization

Mr. Winter
You love games
Sleigh rides
Down steep hills
And skating on thin ice

Your fairytales
Are the bed time
Stories
That freeze
My Dreaming
Igloo

C’s Captivity Collapse

2005-12-21T18:35:00.000-08:00

Cracking
Concealing shells
Carelessly panting
Calling feeling
Crawling out in the open
Creeping in broad daylight
Cradling
Colorful emotional paintings
Clear and transparently
Claiming reality

Lust Flakes

2005-12-20T18:34:00.000-08:00

Lust
Flakes
Fall
At
Contact
Vulnerable
Frosty
Lips
Warm
Frost
Bitten
Eyes

Snowy Nights

2005-12-19T18:27:00.000-08:00

Green tea
Candles
Rocks
And
Sand
Lonely skin
Frost tickled
Missing
Ocean-Breezes
Easing
Into
The
Snowy
Night's
Steamy
Third degree
Dreams
Melting
Window
Snowflakes

The Rules Rule

2005-10-25T20:28:00.000-07:00

The rules
Broke them and fell
A girl’s sin
Dare not be loud and needy
Only sneaking behind the scenery
Spinning
Agonizing wishing
Fighting with their limitations
Anti-Girlie thoughts imprisoned
Spiting on the prison guards that make love so hard
Broke the rules
Caged like the animal I am
Serving my time

Burning Plastic

2005-10-25T20:13:00.000-07:00

Phony
Plastic
Labeled the “perfect” American WOMAN
Barbie stole G.I. Joe’s Jeep
Packed it with her plastic pumps, bows, and babies
Drove it down the hall
Far from the pink house and pink corvette
Strait towards the kitchen
With a scissor she cut her long blond locks
And tossed them in the trunk
Dumped hairspray out over it all to the beat of a heavy metal song
A lit match was tossed from the counter top
Leaning against a bottle of Jack
She smoked with Cat-woman
With the flames of the melting jeep in her eyes