Untitled

I abuse those closest to me,
And so, for your own protection,
I build walls that would make the Chinese envious.
If you find a break,
And dare to wiggle yourself through,
I lash out.
I scream, I yell, I throw remote controls at trembling heads.
I am mean without trying.
I don’t like to hurt you.

I stole your eyes from your head
While you were sleeping- unawares.
I felt a burning need to see myself
Through your eyes.

I hate myself, you call me beautiful.
I get cut, you bleed.
I blow myself into pieces, you glue the puzzle back together.

I had to know-
What are you seeing in me that I can’t?

Midnight surgery.
Placing your still warm eyes into my own head
I can see.
The edges of the world are not blurry,
And everything gives off a slightly golden aura.

I look at myself,
With the theft of your vision.
I see a strange thing.
Me, but not me.

I sleep next to you-
Spread eagle-
To take up as much space as possible.
I look incredibly vulnerable,
Lying there trying to be big in my slumber.
My lips are puffy and cracked, but it suits me.
There is yesterday’s eyeliner smeared under my eyes.
My curls have gone crazy and spewed themselves in all directions.
I look tired. I look small. I look innocent. I look scared.

Your eyes love the slight.
They shoot balmy messages to my brain that scream:
Love! Beauty! Protect! Console! Embrace!

My brain is confused by these signals.
It knows its owner would never warrant the idea of needing protection.
I peel back my eyelids and remove your view from my head-
Place it back where it belongs.

Then I look at you.
Honey, drugs are not a good thing.
They skew your ability to see things for how they are.

Love is the worst drug of all.

Wild Woman

Wild woman.
Jungle woman.
Untamed, undomesticated, unmanageable.
They talk about your black eyes and red red red lips.

They want you;
Not to love, but to possess.
To place upon a shelf,
Shine you monthly,
And let the whole world know:
I won this. This is mine.

My lovely feral woman,
You know not their desires,
But you can tell them all about:
Loneliness
Square pegs in round holes
A throbbing womb
A desire to be touched gently
Dreams of strong accommodating arms.

Woman,
I hope you stay wild.
Be resilient- follow your instincts.
You are stronger than they will ever know.

Love is a jungle:
A fierce and uncultivated world,
Full of vines to trip up your feet,
Flowers to poison you,
Snakes with slick tongues.

And though I know,
Sweet wild woman,
That you were born into this ruthless situation,
Only you need to know,
That you-
Black eyes
Red red red lips-
Are the Queen of this Jungle,
This Maze,
This muddle,
This mess.

Time to reign.

Crabgrass

The Memory of you is
as stubborn as crabgrass-
slowly but surely
replacing
the grass of my brain
with your maze-like roots-
until finally you have consumed me.

I cannot go an hour
without you snaking your way into
my thoughts.
The fights we have over music.
The way you pull my hair,
like a child let wild on a playground.
A comment you made about my red lipstick.

I dreamt of you last night.
We were rock stars,
and while we sang
we kept eye contact with
each other rather than
our screaming audience.

The dream haunts me today.
All I can think is:
What does it mean?

What does it mean?

Untitled

I worry about you
little boy image of me.
Though I guess at this age,
I can't call you little boy anymore.

You are always shaggy and unkempt,
and yes, this can be excused with your tender teenage years,
but your eyes have a look I recognize and know all too well.
It's the look that scares me when I peer into the woman in the mirror.
They are the eyes of someone I pretend not to be,
and someone I tried to hide from you.

That look on your face,
that sweet face that resembles my own so much.
The outbursts for attention.
"Love me. Please, love me,"
your eyes scream.

I understand my dear child,
who is not my own child,
but I certainly wish you were.

I can recount your whole life.
You kept me sane in a chaotic adolescence.

At 2 years old,
headbanging in the back seat
to old classic rock songs,
while big sis took me to school.
If I turned the song you liked,
you'd kick the back of my chair until I flipped it back.
I've changed so many of your diapers,
watched you so many times while you slept,
holding you close and rubbing your back as you cried,
cleaned so many scraped knees and banged elbows,
that I feel I own you.
Maybe I owe you.

Now you are too old to let me hold you
when you are upset.
You are stuck in a hurricane of a home,
and always scared of what the storm may fling towards you-
be it death or domestic dispute
or just general anger and frustration
projected upon your slim boy shoulders.

It is not fair, my dear heart,
that you have to leave home to feel safe.
It's not right that you have to play man of the house,
because you learned at far too young of an age
that some women need more love than it is possible to give.

I see how this wears you down little man.
You sleep on couches of family members.
You are torn between the way it was
and wanting to make her happy.
You lack the experience needed to know-
you can't do that for her.

So little boy/man,
when you show up on my doorstep,
young enough to forget to brush your teeth,
but old enough to have questions about dating etiquette,
at 7 am on a Saturday-
Don't fret.
I'll always let you in.

Fog

I spend my days in a fog-
gently the mist clouds my facilities.

It's a welcome fog.
I don't want to think anymore.
there are too many things-
too many banshees on my windowsill.

When the fog lifts,
I am more disorientated,
gasping for breath in the clean air.

My head is not accoustomed to noise
such as this,
this life,
these problems,
the questions of:
What do I do now?
Where are we going?
Or, scariest of them all:
Am I happy?

So when the fog rolls back in,
I am grateful.
I pull it around my breast like a security blanket.

When you have a brain such as mine,
a curse seems very much like a blessing.

Ted, the cell in the small intestine

Abstract is difficult for me
-but-
I can tell you that
today
I know
rooted somewhere deep inside my small intestine
a tiny cell named Ted
is having a heated discussion with a friend
about how my brain
must be experiencing the exact same emotions as
a jelly donut in SoHo.
They have decided that this donut does not deserve to die
just because the baker decided to make said donut delicious.

It's not the donut's fault.
Why should he become
69 cents worth
of some stoner's sticky pleasure
and then be promptly forgotten?

Another cell
from the recesses of the large intestine
(I don't know his name)
counters back:
"Ted, you forget how vicious things are out there.
What about the poor man making the fated donut?
He must have motive.
He must need money to provide for his basic needs-
a family, shelter, and all that."
He has a very high-pitched voice
for a cell residing in the larger of the intestines.
"At least," he continues
"It seems that way to me
but what do I know?
I am only on the interior of
exterior goings-on."

Ted seems to hang what may
or may not
be his head. He and his friend move on
to another
lighter
subject-
temporarily reprimanded.

Trampoline

When you talk
you are as animated
and as emphatic
as a man on a trampoline.

I see:
fireworks
flowers blooming in hi- def
babies welcomed to the world
sunset in fast forward
the circus through 2nd grade eyes
hummingbirds in warp-speed flight
sweaty love stained bodies moaning in unison.

So please please please
Dear Heart,
don't stop jumping.

Lover, not my Lover

Hello Lover,
but not my Lover.
For though we dance,
feet-light and head-heavy,
we aren't quite there yet.

Lover,
not my lover,
you confuse me.
Sometimes it's as though
you've set up your tidy little home
in my brain.

You decorate your walls with my thoughts.
You've always had a taste for abstract art.

And yet at times,
you are cold.
Eyes like No Man's Land, and it takes some extreme
manual labor
to squeeze those three little words
out of your tightly sealed mouth.

Lover,
not yet my Lover,
I don't know how to give you eviction notice.

All I know is that without your walls to decorate,
the paintings of my thoughts wouldn't be nearly as beautiful.

Ramblings

A star burst.
A wind chime in a light breeze.
Glitter under the eyelids.

All I know id what I feel.

Tingles.
Laughter.
Bright lights.

So forget about the menial things.
Work.
Responsibility is too heavy.
Keep it light baby.

Your hands like electroshock therapy.
The purring roar of a V-8 in a muscle car.
A giant bowl of mint ice cream.
A morning spent warm in bed.
A locked door.
A letter from a friend.

Fuzzy.
Warm.
Inviting.

Like a spanking.

Don't ever stop loving me the way that you do.

Death

I have started to understand suicide.

The death of one's body is not as scary
as the death of one's mind.

It is so difficult to cope, ,
and turn it into something.

Play house.
Smile.
Everything's great.

My house is dirty.
Cringe.
I'm not afraid of death anymore.

Love Diagnosis- the Project

Emily needs intellectual stimulation. She's been referring to herself in the 3rd person- just not a good policy. This is her idea:
All those people you watch- the couples, the man with the baseball hat cuddling his wife on a park bench, stroking her hair as their children run around in front of them. that old man sneering at the waitress in the cafe on the corner. That woman with the fire engine red hair who gives you coffee, and announces the fake name you've given her with a drumroll and a piece of history... Crawl in their heads. What does love mean to these people? How do they love? Why? Motivations? Insecurities? Turn ons?

I will be writing a series of blurbs from the perspective of these people that catch my eye, and write what I think they are feeling... No poetry. Journal type entries. This should be a challenge.

Welcome to Love Diagnosis.

Complex

When people ask me about me and you
I answer: "It's complex."
I don't have a better answer than that.
We have vague mumblings about the future
but both you and I know better
than to put all of our eggs
in one basket.
You have not committed,
and I'm terrified of falling.
I wonder how long we can live in slow motion-
if we'll eventually get agitated and run full speed
ahead
or away.
I guess, my darling,
this depends on you.

Marriage: the attachment of one person to another- theoretically for life. It is strangely attractive to me, in the way "blood sisters" and "cross your heart" was to me as a child. It's a challenge, it's a sacred oath. Sounds slightly secretive and tons of fun, to never have to be or feel alone again.

Back in the yonder years marriage was a business transaction- women/ daughters sold for some kind of profit or benefit. The engagement ring for example, evolved from a rope used to tie a fresh bride to her bed, or a convenient chair, so she would not run away while the man was working or doing his manly type stuff. Eventually, once the bride realizes there is no escape, and where would she go anyway?, the rope is reduced from shackles to a loop around the finger. A reminder- I could tie you up again faster than a hummingbird. Eventually, we placed a little more value on the woman and this string was replaced with gold, and now diamond bands. Adorable isn't it?

There is a BDSM side of me that says- cool, tie me up. Make me yours. Claim me dammit- aren't I worthy? But there is another side of me that say- run free. Live for yourself.

I am conflicted, and confused. Do I want to be married, tied down to one person for the rest of my life? Will that make me happier? Knowing he can't get up and leave (easily anyway) and that we truly belong to one another? Legally, in writing?

I have not yet decided- the can of worms is too intimidating. Luckily for me there is no ring on my finger, no claim made. I do not have to make a decision that will hurt me either way. I am scared, and feel very alone- fighting with yourself is always more tiring. I do not want to make a mistake. I do not want to flee in my Pumas, nor do I want to kneel before an alter.

I am afraid the moment of decision is looming. We sure as hell aren't getting any younger.

My Samson

I need you to reassure me that everything is okay.
I want you singing to me,
or drive me around aimlessly in your SUV we named after a story book horse.
We talked to her when we had car trouble,
like the soothing tone of our voices could do better than a mechanic.

But you are not here
you haven't been for 8 years.

I couldn't kill,
and you couldn't fight,
the wrath of suburbia.

I remember when we would lie in your bed,
listening to Tori Amos,
and we would share our
diagnoses.
I would read you my poetry
you played the piano.

I'm bi-polar,
you were manic.

Little mirrors of one another,
each the base to the others acid.

Our love worked so well.

But eventually the straws of
-suburbia, stress, apathy, feigned nonchalance, among other things-
broke you
and you left:
New York
bright lights
New people.
You gave me Under the Pink,
and rode off on Black Beauty.

I just want you to know,
I understand.
We don't talk anymore.
Silence is heavy with patience.

Last I heard from you
you had bells in your voice,
You write music, and you sound better than ever-
I am happy for you.

I wanted you to know that no matter how little we talk
I still love you.
You were the first person to listen.
You were the first man who loved me
without tainting that love with awkward sexual advances.

I understand that it is too painful to talk to me,
because I belong in that place you fled from.
That's okay,
but when you left,
I sniped a lock of you hair for a souvenir,
and I slipped a piece of my heart into your bag.

We both know I am too vain to be forgotten..

Empty

You.
What?
You love me?
Prove it.

Make it so I can't get out go to bed, unless you are there rubbing my temples for me, caressing the stress of the day until it melts under your strong hands.
Make it so the first thought in my morning-weary head is about you.
And while I'm tossing and turning, twisting up my sheets at night- it's because I'm dreaming of you.

Prove it.
Make it so during my day, all the little things make me want you.
That man's shirt- the exact shade of your cappuccino eyes.
that mahogany table reminds me of your hair.
Make me walk around like a love-lorn zombie.
Under your spell.
You are all I can concentrate on.
Your goofy smile, so full of glinting white teeth.
Your strong shoulders, the way the soft hair on your tanned arm tickles my neck when you rest your arm on my shoulder.

I love you,
but can you make me tingle with
that burning passion
I've only heard about?

Rain your words of love on me.
Touch me with your worker's hands,
delicate like birds,
but strong and calloused.

Make me do it.
Make me pine.
Make me dote on you.
I want to burn.

What was that?
Too much effort?

Yeah, that's what I figured.

And so I will rest here,
devoid and derelict.

Please fill me.

Sugar

You
Sweet as sugar
Melt
Beneath my willing tongue.

Shaky

Shaky-
My hand reaches out
To touch you
And I am so surprised
That your flesh leaps out for the attention.

Tainted

I am tainted when I am with you.
You are:
running water so pure,
It hurts the teeth
before it slides down the throat.

Warm in my stomach.
Cleansing me.
Washing out the impurities.

I want to bottle you,
right at the source.
My own personal spring,
so pleasantly fresh,
tricking down,
sanitizing,
my black spine.

My People We Burn So Slowly

My people we burn so slowly

In the morning
I huddle myself in blankets
hot mug of tea
fresh from the shower
trying to rid oneself
of the slight headache
already pressing the temples

Instead,
listen to the tinkling song of the birds
admire the dragon peppers
sunbathing in their cozy pots
reflect upon the things that I love the most
as the sun caresses my world weary head:

a man with a 3 day beard,
and the way the beard will lick its way down his neck

how beautiful the delicately stringed vocabulary of a 3 year is
like painted macaroni on brightly colored yarn

art in simplicity

the glare of light through stained glass
blood red wine in a glass

lying in bed with a warm somebody
no thoughts except-
How nice it is to feel somebody else's warmth on your cold toes
and how lucky you are to not be

Alone.

Thinking these things all
absorbing the loving touch of the sun
wrapped up in cozy blankets
fighting off a headache
with a steaming mug of tea
fresh from the shower.

My people we burn so slowly.

In Another Life

In another life
we may have held hands
and fought in a bar
because your brand of sarcasm
is bitter on my tongue
or maybe you just bought me a drink
to wash it down
and everything was pleasant again

but I remembered the aftertaste
and I must confess
it excited me

maybe we danced
maybe it rained as i left
and you offered me your jacket
and we ended up at my place

it really doesn't matter how it happened

the thing is
I've always kind of wondered
in another life
we would've
wouldn't we?

Tango Nuevo

My dear I must say,
you look so becoming in your
fluttery red-
flamenco tart-
tight-
satin
dress-
though you seem a bit awkward in the shoes.

Try to keep my lead.

You will dance
head held high
neck rigid-
that's right darling,
you be strong
and dance for me.

I've been working hard
all day
My legs are stiff,
I may be a bit sweaty,
but baby,
I can take you by the waist
and show you what I've got.

We take the floor.
tell the story in 4/4 time.

Stomp stomp say my feet.
Jingle jangle say my spurs.
Click click, say your heeled toes.
Swish swish say your skirts.

I work you hard-
thigh to thigh.
Sweeping, elegant steps,
complicated footwork.

I push you
I pull you.
You follow my lead.
Dance puppet dance.

I admire your strength,
but I have to admit,
I can't wait to rip that dress off of your
nubile limbs,
and degrade you.

Why?

For the same reason I break a beautiful horse.
I dominate.
I wear the spurs
because I like knowing they are there.


Dip you down low,
admire the fine arch of your back,
gaze down your decolletage.

Be strong.
Dance for me.

The Rambling Proclimations of a Most Liekly Depressed Woman

Bettie Page and Eartha Kitt can now be added to the list of those I admire who are too good for this planet. I'm going to guess it has something to do with the way people love to hate one another- myself included I suppose. Given a choice, I would leave too - maybe. I have my vices. I like to call them the 7 Dead-lies. Sadly enough, Sin, in her tight black vinyl body suit (hey Lady - do they have that in my size) keeps me here. Oh , Eve, you certainly knew how sweet the fruit was, didn't you? Or was it not the fruit, but the knowledge?

Or does it really matter? Was it boredom? Was it an, I'm here, might as well quench that empty just, nothing, feeling?

I'm off track- again. I do that. I have a rare talent for the bird walk. I was saying that given the chance to flee, I would think long and hard about it. I mean, I do have a lust for sin, which in and of itself is a deadly, so you can see how hard this decision would be for me, but let me make my case.

People these days still hate others for nothing but the color of their skill, the language they speak, and a few degrees difference in latitude and longitude. Hey man, I understand hatred- but have a real reason. Have a bold reason. Have a reason. Stereotypes exist beyond the realm of comedy. I'm not okay with that. People still don't read, reality television has killed the screenwriter, let alone the video star, and art is not forever anymore. Children work unholy hours in foreign countries so that teenagers here can be stylin'. Fuck that.

I could keep going on, but in all honesty, if I go any deeper than that, I will get very depressed. In high school I was extremely depressed about the entire world, as a whole. I made myself very sick. I really wanted to die; I couldn't handle how cruel everyone was to each other. I'd stay up late watching CNN, then go to school, when I didn't really have that many close friends, and I'd write and breeze through classes, and do what I could. I was all drugged up too, because I was pretty sick the whole second half of high school. Oh man, was that head a maze of mashed potatoes. I don't think anyone really knew how fucked up I was. I was bulimic, and a borderline alcoholic, and a cutter, but pulling mostly As. I was a walking suicide threat. I think 1 kid caught on, at a peer counseling convention (I was a student counselor too- adorable, yes?) ; he wrote the words "Suicide Hotline", and his phone number on my hand. I was shocked. I was a M&M dammit. No one breaks the shell. I built a stronger one. But I remembered him, and was thankful I knew there was someone there, though I never called to tell him about the mosh pit in my head or the cuts that I moved from my arms to my hips, where there would be less likely noticed.

I went back and read the last bit of this and realized how crazy I must sound. That's good. I am. But now it's the good crazy. I ran away to college, met some awesome people, and honed a craft. But I never let go of that pain. I just found a place to put it. When I hear of these people who pass away, that have done these huge things with their lives- first I am jealous, because they have done such things I have not. Secondly-what a relief to put the pain and fight of this rambunctious and zealous life somewhere else for awhile.


I'm not done yet.