Sending poetry to the world
She ran away from home
off from the one brown bench and making friends
with the blue heron with silver wings.
Her sticky fingers
ran skipping through raw and naked waves
during hurricane Floyd’s slip and slide.
Sliced air in spirals swirling
while smoking opium in a
red wig and rainbow Mardi Gras dress
with her new friends,
and the Allman brothers.
Again and again, she licked and
returned for seconds,
loving that manic dancing frantic excitement
almost as much as
the crushing low.
you never went to visit or
say goodbye.
instead you were walking alone amidst white birch
that looked silhouette black as the sun was setting
and your teeth were chattering. you were blind when you fell.
was it the memories or the premonitions that burned
your corneas and left your eye sockets full of ash?
you feel the dirt piling up under your fingernails
as you dig a place to lay to rest.
the girl snuffed ink
freshly printed and pressed from every
corner paper and fliers and stickers
on lampposts and street signs.
she stumbled Eastern in a haze
ink sinking into the grooves
of her fingerprints and pupils
and never looking
fell to her knees while her nose
smelled deep the black asphalt.
in floral housedress
an old woman watched
while one wrinkled hand
patted lightly grey hair
matted on that one same side.
I am the cold rain drop sliding down the window
Sliding into my chair with a defeated sigh
Looking at the phone Looking at the phone Looking at the phone
The rain drops make the asphalt jump alive the rain
Pours so hard it makes the world one large gray cloud
The rain only has one way it can go
straight down I tend to follow
Waiting on the call Waiting on the call Waiting on the call
For some reason, I can’t stop reading Himalayan books, adventurous accounts of men and women who have conquered the highest highs on this planet. I needed to jot this down now~ hoping it will lead to a more full-fledged poem. let me know your thoughts!
Upon Reading Annapurna
somehow the ocean child in me
has been consumed by mountains
striking blue glacier passes
towering ice faces
impossible crevasses and
threats of avalanche
Annapurna, a beauty I’ll never know,
doesn’t whisper or whimper
Annapurna roars her mind’s will
imposes all in her frosted shadow
captures us blasphemous ocean fools
and lifts our flat horizon
straight up to the moon.
Admittedly, this one is a tad* dark (written several years ago, revised today) but I imagine some of you who’ve have spent too much time thinking in Vegas like I have may understand the concept….
Vegas Tattoo Blues
Brown carpet is a
worn threadbare path
rough against my arches.
False air blows brown curtains
cooly, such a drag.
My hands so slim and tender
are steady.
Despite the night,
that mascara running, fishnet talking,
suited pusher, blinking neon,
jackpot empty promise of a night.
It stings.
Pills help, booze too
but nothing compares to this.
My eyes bead with water
like the rows of cars on
Las Vegas Boulevard, every
solitary mark belongs.
I gaze out the window.
Casinos blink approval
and bloat their bellies full
of quarters.
here comes the white noise
all noise
background noise
devoid
like the TVs in the window
black with white screens facing out
boarded house window seat
what were the TVs doing on?
why were they all blank with static?
white noise
sounds of scatchhhhhhhhhhhh
noise
nothing of value.
In honor of some still ringing ears from a wicked (wicked!) show last night at the 930 in DC with Black Rebel Motorcycle Club, thought it was time for this one written loosely about one of my fav frontmans (written back aways, slightly revised here).
Steam like Weiland
Steam from my Lipton’s
hot tea
dances like Scott Weiland
and wails
like a hot electric guitar lick
and fogs up my eyes like cataracts.
Oh the nights
where smoke replaced steam
moonshine instead of tea
and I need not imagine him
close enough to smell
the sweat.
Remember hot heat,
grind and sway
so close,
that plush hot heat,
that same song request
and that hot hot heat.
When tea cools down
the steam leaves drops
cold slippery, falling asleep.
All winter, I was curled tight in my bed
so that my legs had become part of my torso
and my arms wrapped around the whole bundle
as to let nothing out,
or in.
In the early equinox morning,
the sun rose up over the row-homes that
stretched into a scraped horizon.
I could see it with one half-shut eye,
through one slice of blinds but I did
not move from my bulb.
Soon, soon, the glow blinded
it pierced into my drowsy eyelids and ever so gently
peeled away my fingers, prodded my arms out, then,
carefully pushed my legs straight.
I stretched across the sheets.
I stood gently, unaware.
The sun enveloped the whole of the city and room.
I was unsure of my steps,
but I stretched up and
drank in the light…blooming.
alone, she
watched the impending
clouds. grey thick and heavy
with waiting.
her father had
warned of such moments
and her mother
spoke quietly, “then,
you must listen”
it was just that their faces
had lit with excitement
despite her “you should
not be here”
they were waiting
as they always had.
and inside she felt
expectant. outside the grey
sky whispered, “yes, you already know
it will rain.”
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