Short Sentences, Long Winded

All that matters are the words,
It’s absurd, to think a thing as fickle as desire would
Clear out the field of players that wield axes,
Come from battles they lose,
Over and over, you know
I often don’t understand the terms you use
Though I love to hear you spin
Your story, beat by beat because
None of it,
Not you, not me
Ever had to make sense,
Tie me up and rip me down
I’ll just let you walk,
Knee deep through my matter,
I’m scattered
My lips are battered from
Chewing the words instead of
Telling you, I was here
Long before your arrival.

Don’t pretend, I amend
My story, I’m no downer
Except you keep dipping low
Where ups reverse
their flow.


When you get sick, do you prefer to go it alone or be doted upon by a friend, partner, or parent? Do you usually go to work or school or stay home?
Wow is this appropriate for me today!
I had a wound that was pretty well healed until a week ago, and now my body is pouring forth the chemicals of sickness and sorrow, and all that comes along with life's many tribulations.
Most often, when finding that a stage like this has approached the present, I prefer to handle it on my own.
Who wants to be around a sick person?

Even those that love me the most, wanting to lay in bed with me, or come over in the middle of the night to care for me are pushed away.
I miss them as I push them, but in the end I feel better, more empowered.
I write until I need to rest, read when I'm feeling well enough, and watch films of various foreign languages to keep my phonetic abilities in shape. I write sad poems that are open to inferences -which are ususally wrong- and test my narrative skills by jotting down the thoughts of a person without a voice, and theoretically fictional.

My hair's finally growing out. Grazing the tops of my shoulder blades, it falls softly in front of my face, and I smile because I'm starting to resemble the lovely girl with cascading ringlets I was just a year ago.

Everytime I ask a question I'm told to write.

Dear scribblers, artists, fondlers, and music makers,
I wish for you a lovely fast paced Monday. As for me, I wish for hibernation beneath the quilts with hot black tea, paper, pens, and books.


Melancholy Bloodstream

Sore heart I beg you to continue on beating.
The past bears the heaviest load of pain and I
Cannot carry the burden it unloads upon my present
I don’t. Don’t want to see faces in my dreams
Because the thought of love being ignored with doubt
With the ignorant certainty of finding a pearl in a broken clam shell,
Turns my Love to dust when once it was so alive.

A stomach full of flies and no butter
Feeding on afterthoughts like parasites
I plead, dearest muscle keep pumping and I
Will nourish you with hope,
Coddle you with sweet something’s,
Kiss you awake with unspoken promises.

The abundance of what awaits beckons impatiently
Missing you though it hasn’t met you


Subway Syndicate

On a Sunday afternoon riding the subway
many things surprise me.
Ruffled heavy dresses,
Sweaters and Suits,
Scowling faces,
Unshaved legs.
Laziness is Sunday's motto.

An asian woman stares with heavily lined eyes
into a portable map.
Her mouth pursed in a concentrated ball
no longer seems pensive.
She purses her mouth much like a fish would,
when rising to the surface for air.

I keep staring as if my own will could
help her mouth relax.

Possible embaressment causes her to pull the map closer,
concealing her face.
Her lips relax.
They frown.

A woman in a white dress made
of cotton,
and lace
chooses not to sit in any of the available seats.
Her body reads, 'I don't often take public transportation.'

Exiting at 23rd I notice she's wearing headphones.
Can't help but wonder
what she's listening to.

I exit the train at 14th street and pose
a few options.

How Strange, Innocence

Can we really be friends?

Part of this makes me sad.

The illogically natural feel to a friendship
that once included physical intimacy.

Sex becomes so trivial, and thoughts
of extinguishing the flame are no longer thoughts.

The matches no longer serve to ignite
but to prolong stifled chemistry
and what you once thought was
so unique, sustained by passion,
has died with the ease of habit.

Such a shame.


At 19. "Reality's Destruction"

A weakness in human kind has always been the necessity
To support the desire of concealing the obvious

The fact that we must promote the idea that things can get better
When they are down
That the pain, however piercing
Will one day fade from our hearts

The possible reason is that we are all stuck on forms of idealism
The probable answer, however, is that no one wants to believe
The pain may very well become the thing that destroys us

So our weaknesses are in our avoidance of the real
Allowing each night to drag on
While the day speeds up with minor habitual inconveniences

Eventually, we each become our own *destroyers*
It's the wave of nausea, the pang in our guts
...Thoughts of age, and deterioration...
Accepting reality is too expensive these days
Even for the most fortunate
Likewise with words, lies have been made cheap

Who needs the truth when you can afford to lie...

Note: I love the naivety in this relic. Forgive its bad format.


Another little dittie from the east...

At night I dream of sleep while awake
Chasing stars,
Toes curling at the foot of a doorway
I see with my eyes closed.


A former roommate called me driving west...

He was getting paid to drive a truck from New Hampshire to California. It was a way to earn a few extra bucks, and while we spoke on the phone he described to me what he saw.

It inspired a piece I began, that was in an entirely new voice so foreign to my own.

I still dig it.

Burning with the lust for adventure, he visits volcanoes in California. Legs swinging, he sat beneath the hot springs liberated by volcanic oozes, magma, and geysers visualizing the boiling water beneath the ground. The lava erupting over one land; Part Wyoming, part Montana, and part Idaho. Fucking huge and out of control.
Mountains hold his gaze, and amid the floating wisps of twisted mariquana cigarettes he feels very much liberated by the open road. Gusts of wind meander in and out of his car windows softly humming over the sound of his world music. Cracking his knuckles to an invisible drumbeat, a mist of rain that he once tolerated begins to sprinkle upon his steering wheel. He’s been clutching the fourth joint of the evening between his forefinger and thumb. Surprisingly his fingertips are clean and uncinged; he’s been doing this for days without flaw. Through desolate highway roads, the soft music of Midwest nothingness, and the colors of sunrise and sunset blending into one even hue of grey.
For the last few hours the whoosh of passing cars has been amiss. Silently he aches for the metallic symphony of some other vehicle or the crushing presence of another pick up truck. In that moment he’s tempted to sway his steering wheel along with the escalating tempo of the chanting vocals in his car radio. Instead he settles on to casual head bopping. A ridiculous act that he secretly is thankful no one witnesses.
Purple skies turn a deep mauve, and from a very slight distance he sees the ominous shape of a buffalo; A comfort in the descending shadow of night. Clearly, the beast appreciates the quiet privacy of the road relieving itself in one still moment; Perfect for a single frame on Jeff’s camera. Slowing his truck to a smooth trailing glide, one soft click alerts the bull of his proximity. But he still finishes the job; the next stop is Nevada.
Stray, highway tires are aflame not too distant from the looming ashen edifice down the road. The ashenned brick, and thick black fence surrounding tells his intuition that it’s a prison. He thinks, making a few phone calls to pass the time wouldn’t be such a bad idea, might ease his nerves. With the exception that he’s called most everyone who would conceivably be awake at this point. Ah but text messages, his generation’s attempt at intimacy without the nuisance of actual voice on voice contact. They serve to pass the time; for the moment.
The hours of silence persist and permits paranoia to return to the scene, rendering him wary of any lurking bulls hiding in the shadow of the descending desert sun. Fatigue is barely replaced by caffeine pills, and he stares into that bucket seat between the passenger and driver with the longing for the warmth of a woman’s knee beneath his palm. It has been a long journey from adventure to the calming madness of solitude. Smothered by the silence of the open road he sifts his hand through the glove compartment in search of new tunes. Here is the point where he silently seeks a voice to join his journey on the silent road providing a roadblock of blood, sex and madness. His eyes flutter over the glare of his headlights though not from fatigue, but more a waking dream providing the great escape. The feat which has been so easily avoided begins to seep into his consciousness, and the realization of his final destination looms before him in the shape of a bird in flight.


Beach Play (7/12)

Laying on the sand, my girlfriend's feet above my head, toes gringing the sand up and over.
My right hand follows my right arm faced down, fingertips tapping.
My left hand holds the book I'm reading.
All of these sounds become slaps onto what seems like a hollowed cavity.
I stop reaching and listen to the collaboration of my hand and her feet,
banging on the wall of the beach ground trying to get through to the empty center.
It almost seems like below us is the Earth's core, or another state only visible when the earth turns and the Sun gives it It's full attention.

I'm certain I'm not the only one who's thought about this.

Children sit on the sand building castles while the Ocean's undercurrent threatens to tear down their creation; The whole time probably feeling the impact of the steps people make as they pass by on their way down to the shore.
It's surreal, the Ocean.
The build-up from far off, the rising, the curling, and the sharp edge that stands frozen before slamming into the sand with a pulse that flatlines and crawls to reach the toes of people there just to catch the breeze.


Train Tracks On My Mind

You’re a blank page and I am a jammed pen.

Every morning I wake up with possibilities and minutes visualized in seconds telling me there’s time to conquer the world. Then my brain freezes. So many thoughts get caught in a traffic jam on the platform of my imagination and I stop. Moving. Time slows. I stare into an abyss of darkened windows and closed doors and I cry into the future I cannot see. Yet. No tears, just bewilderment. Joy in the beauty of spontaneity.
My mind is full of locomotive trains pulling thoughts instead of cargo,
Fumes building into my collective subconscious until the day’s reached it’s end, and I can breathe.

Some weeks take a really long time to reach Friday.


The Subway

A mother daughter duo of mutual snobbery practice general yuppyism.
The mother turns her head aside while the daughter points her gaze downward
into her mother's palms, where the New York Times appears to be held for her perusal; it isnt.
She's merely holding the paper in a sense of lofty apathy so as not to stain her fingertips with its ink.
The mother wears fake pearls, rustic, perhaps made of wood.

They don't interact, retaining their gazes in the opposite direction of each others.

People wear dresses without smiles.
Glasses without swagger.
Pearls without grace.

New York at 9am without a caffeine injection.

Solitude As masturbation

Drops of crystal cut
out of silk sashes.
Love in a fabric's movements.


Resurrecting Fossils

“Too Late”

In my heart, and the still ashes of my bereaved memories
I realize now may be the wrong time to get close to you.
Because though you may think I’ve been with creeps, egomaniacal landmines of men, I’ve known Love. Once
(And I miss him every day)
Miss those nights of pain, blood, and madness
Because he always knew how to turn a scream into a sigh,
a wish into the attained.
He was mocked for his passion, hated upon for it they thought
it couldn’t be genuine.
More real than their own egos built up self-perceptions.
He first saw me as an appearing clarity round face, loud mouth in the middle of a crowded line at Duane Reade and I made him mine
before knowing he was what I wanted.
No that love amid one star resorts in European beach towns, and city intersections it
had no fucking chance at survival.
Just goes to say that while we may want
with all our bits of ambition,
our hearts can retain the stains of even our most surface interludes.
Calming me with a matched wail,
he valued my dreams as though they were his own.
Many mistakes later, seemingly endless moments of solitude
with him still inside of me.
Somehow he no longer heard my voice
my scars began to soften, though never fade.
In a flash, my womanhood renewed,
you appeared
And so I’m wondering what you’re thinking.
Why I feel, our roles, as pupil and instructor seem to reverse, and revert so often.
I’m wondering who’s the stronger one.
But seriously, I’m curious about those long fingers, those soft,
Mirthful eyes,
Smiling lines,
that chest slapping rhythm hunger of your soul
And what they have to offer.
Because although the clock seems to be no longer ticking away the chances-
my time is to be cherished,
not necessarily bottled by the handsome ignorant.


It's not hard to live this life

Eyes opening in the dark still find their way towards the door.
Reflexes sharper, than softer with practice; I've never belonged to anyone.
Mornings rife with yawns and nostalgia in a sunrise.

Do not fear, I won't let you get too close.
I am the elixir to co-dependence.
It'll come as a surprise; my words.
They may be perceived as a door closing; they're not.

Only warnings. I like to run.
Writing in the attempt to find answers,
I pose my questions more specifically.

Speaking, I cannot control the order.


When I returned from Brazil, I wrote many little ditties

Silken ocean waves sweep away my thoughts on unrequited love,
and I am awakened to a future with salt water saturating my hair,
laughter bubbling in my lungs.
Sweet and hard, freshly picked fruit .
A hammock in the shadows.


Do You See Me?

I never said I didn't enjoy that song.
Being alone doesn't mean
your heart needs blood to pump
the subsconcious peripheral
Visions of ecstacy.

Waking up in your arms does not
so easily lead to our heads
meeting in a world of dreams,
faces so much alike each other
Fantasies taking place in reality.
This is dissonance.
A quiet madness
I've created to ease
the anxiety.

Orange puffiness
A peed on cloud
disguised as a coat,
swept back curls of salt and pepper
Brown loafers pinned in
a gold clasp.,
Which is merely decorative.
Laughter and sadness
masked by the need to simply
not care
apathy in the form of basic bliss.

I'm sucking on my cheeks
watching the ink swirl upon
these conforming, lined pages
Belle & Sebastian moaning
beautiful nonsense.
Once in awhile I look to
see what stop it is
So many emotions
cured by these numerable
sweeps of passion,
pulsating anticipation
in the messy angles.

If I have been poisoned
by an insect
a toad
a craft amphibian.
Let this be the worst poison
I will have to cure.

Do you see me?

Cradling My Tenderness In Wishes

I continue to fantasize
the curve of my body curling
down to be emcompassed
by a neverending sheet
of white silk, transparant yet
masking my skin-tender from
Abuse and hardship.
I fold and the silk envelops
my sorrow.

I am a child. It's heart in the breast
of a woman
full grown,
stripped of motherhood.

Everything lingers. In the heart.
The mind.
All of our struggles and hardships
Shaped and tucked away in the nooks
created in the deepest
most buried compartments of
my consciousness.
I pray for relief.
To no God.
No. To a dream.
Of silk chiffoned silence,
Hushed mouths,
Repressed anger.

Truth masked
in comedy.


I Knew It Then

In the looping rhythm and melody of El Ten,
The unspoken, unwritten lyrics of my heart
Wait impatiently to dispel their true intentions.
The pen stops and my dreams (fantasies) capture my focus
Unveiling hidden wishes
Your hand finding mine in the darkness for we rarely see
eachother's faces in the light of day.The well in my mind never runs out
Of ink when you're on it.
I won't allow myself to seek you out,
Fear stills my feet from stepping onto
The platform of rejection. Its just
These moments when I find myself
Seeking out the comfort of sleep beneath the glow
Of a setting sun that the passion
I feel fails to dissipate and I inflict the pain
Upon my fingers, wrist locking in place,
Wishing I could just forget your beautiful imperfections.

The turning point that is our lives
Will inevitably draw us upon opposite paths,
And knowing I cannot follow you
For need to seize my own
I remain still , rocking my feet from toes to heel
Wrapping myself in an embrace as you
Drift further and further.
Baby, I call you dude to remind myself
Of the reality
And while I may be just another woman for whom you failed
To feel nothing but lust and
Perhaps good company,
Yearning for adventure
I do not mind
For I know I've made a deep enough imprint
So that I will never be forgotten.


I'm attracted to vulnerable men

Perhaps I'd even go so far as to say that one of my creature comforts is providing companionship, and inspiration to my partners.

It is a one way street that leaves me feeling antsy, and alone once I've grown adjusted to the look of the place.

In the end, I'm sought after by these creatures, as they are reminded from the day I leave and every one after that I was their muse. The prevention from their own self destruction.

I don't mind it.

In the end it simply would be more convenient to be the needy one, as opposed to the provider.