lost

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

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
again
each time
every time
with time
in the broken glass
the brokenness
in my eyes still
sees you

Electric confession

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mr. Winter

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