The Church at 4th and Christian

I sat among aged old wood today
and cried as whiffs of decay
floated out from among the rafters.
The space was ours for a time,
but last night came the gunshots, the searchlight,
and today the rattling of barracaded doors.

This afternoon, when I climbed the stairs
and sat among the aged old wood after everyone had gone,
I saw -
above our sanctuary, above my head
the roof was caving in.

There among the aged wood I cried for
the gunshots, searchlights, and the sound of your retreating footsteps.
I sat, after everyone had gone,
and cried for the playing space
that had once housed faith.

Eve

I am Jesus.
That's why the TV speaks.
I am Jesus and they are coming.
Crucifixion's on the wind.
I have to tell to tell She tell her she'll see
Aloud and out
~ Free. ~
Outside the air she walks me a journey we took as kids.
We are on the street
~ Siamese Street. ~
but it's different from the eyes of the saved.
I want her saved, to save.
So I tell her Jesus and me and the TV.
I tell her about family ties, the truth connection
she can't see and ask her if its possible
to rape someone with out knowing it.
Nothing is open.
They've all closed doors to look for me.
Beauty and the Beast.
I tell her this, she tells me:

No, it's Christmas Eve.

But there, a truck a man coming from a bar
she grabs my arm but I know it's my turn,
~ You alright, man? You all right? ~
No! It's to save to speak aloud to free -
She takes my elbow
~ No. ~
As he climbs his truck
~ whathfuah? ~
The shakes:
You alright, man? You all right?
Gonna go home, safe? You all right?
Engine starts,
She veers me left,
as I pull out, chase the truck
~ Take it easy. You all right? See you soon. ~
I will.
See him soon.
Jesus saves.
What? Home.
She pours hot milk
I'll pretend
still can't tell what she's part of the plan
evacuation excavation and the crucifixion.
What she don't know or chooses to ignore is
~ Jesus chose to die. ~
so will I
I will die
Tonight
maybe before
maybe already
She waits up to see
but falls asleep before me,
to footsteps pacing.
I listen to her breathing

~Walls.~

***
Four AM

You're still moving, little brother.
Taking the path of your older, mirrored self.
He's still not back completely from the trip he took six months ago.
Disheartened but stronger, bitterely broken,
it will take a lifetime to reconcile with what was lost,
what is now found in drugs.

There is no betrayal worse than that of the self,
a split between two - the uncontrollble highs and lows.
Tonight you told me you are Jesus and that
you are awaiting excavation in a cave.
Then you said the solution lies only in death
and your rebirth and that you were going
to take matters into your own hands
and surrender to the man hunt
and something then about
Beauty and the Beast.

Now I stand
outside your hospital room
staring at the white washed walls,
the carefully tucked corners of the bed,
the center, the hold of all you own now -

Your laceless shoes.

A guard is posted outside your door
because of the telephone you threw
during what I'm sure you would call
the interrogation
~ the intervention~
if you weren't so vacant,
so unexpectedly violent,
if you were the person
from before balance was broken,
you'd be free
to walk to the mess hall,
to walk out of this goddamn hell hole,
to replace the pills for red and green m&ms.
Instead you have lost ten, fifteen, or more pounds.

Mother weeps for the sons she lost this year,
Father has gone silent and vacant in a different way,
and Adam is in a rage at having to relive,
from the outside in, the loss of Eden.

And me? I'm empty, I think.
I don't believe you are Jesus,
or that Jesus saves.
I don't believe in Chistmas, or Eden,
have hated this season
since the nightmares came
on the night before Christmas,
the year I was eight.

Only now I have a reason,
now I see

~Laceless shoes at the foot of your bed.~

what I have been
dreading all these years -

But for you
~ for us ~
on this anniversary
I have shut down and shut up -
For that once was what saved
those who needed saving.

Instead of analyzing dreams,
I mend stockings,
wash well worn dishes,
carefully place snowflakes,
move the North Pole,
drink up the good champagne,
and in this silence accept
my role with a smile
and finally some grace.

11:11

a man sat by
the roadside
in rags and brine,
rocking a bit
whispered mutterings
on his lips.

a soldier recently
back from war
travelled the road
with knapsack in tow.
met the man
of rags and brine
whispered mutterings
upon his lips.

disgusted,
the soldier stopped
screamed over the roar of
war in his head,
"You look and smell
like a pig!"

the man
of rags and brine
took pause, let
silence hang
suspended
between them,
looked up
to the soldier's eyes;

"You look like God."

without pause,
"How can you call me God
when I just called you a pig?"

again the man
took in the soldier
then stood
looked to his eyes,
arched, cracked back
suddenly straight,

"I spend my days with God.
You must spend your days
with someone else."

In eyes.

Me too, my friend,
my Dark Prince.
I left it behind
on accident.
Thought about
what was left for
days but really
found something
in nothing
instead.
Finding solice
in solitude,
you said,
perfectly reminded
me of how easy it is -
Rarely do you let
me finish my thoughts,
instead cut me off - but
To answer your
question;
I'm finding that
watching the back,
tracing touchless
fingertips
along the spine
is better than -
revisioning
ravishings
marked in
translucent light.
I have yet to figure out
how to do as you say,
to hold eye contact,
but that will come
as eye contact
can be more
solidary than
a glance just
past, to the
horizon of
daydreams.
Deepset grey is
there -
just beneath
a purple haze,
waiting to breach
the silence,
and if I were to write
her, and you,
together we'd
make coal
for the
christmas
season.
We all have
something to
hide.
Indeed, my friend,
my Dark Prince.
The trouble is
it shows through
my eyes.

Gone

Sapphire's in mourning.

refuses to speak

of colors consumed -

so instead costumes

in black, absorbs

color, gives in

to deep hues

of hopped gold,

swelling brown,

and organinc greens.

addictions resurface

with the addition

of pink lips to an

already crowded day.

deepset grey in reverse
refuses to let go
writes it out,
these bright muted colors
but never an honest truth.

sapphire hates to read
and so
in a haze of hopped gold,
swelling brown, and organic green
is able to ignore the underlying
cold of deepset grey's
bronze cast iron touch.
will never know, does not care
enough to know the parallels
to already hectic lives.

Alice's House

Enter
into a room
adorned in red
for the Queen of Hearts'
birthday.
Floor to ceiling
slanted shelves
burst with
books from
under an ivy league,
but notice the rhyme,
a bedtime story
tucked here or there -
Then up the spiral
staircase to
a throne shrouded
in blue with erasable pen
attached to the wall
and parting words
scribbled above
and around
the Cheshire Cat's
claw footed tomb.
Then down again
the spiral stair
and out the door
to a star studded -
what can only be
described as
constellated -
veranda.

Alice drinks tea
from a mason jar,
mixes mohitos,
then serves it up
in tiny japanese glasses.
No matter the poison, as long as it's organic.
Oh, but no dairy for the Queen,
so the cake is vegan chocolate
decadent and sweet -
a bit dry, but made
for the Mad and i
so eat, so drink.

Fuck Starbucks.

Here
The Queen of Hearts
may pet your leg,
mistaken it for the
neighbor's dog -
but it's all good
because the other guests
wear 3D glasses
and all in all
Alice gives one
badass parting gift.

Trite

Today I almost ripped out my veins
poured blood to the page
and killed you.
I almost shattered every CD,
called you up to scream
about an empty tank.
I almost did as I dreamed -
and ripped out my veins -
Splattered the french divide
with

F - STOP DO NOT EN
CALL 911

and went to sleep.

But F - is gone now
that message means
nothing now,
an empty threat because
the translucent walls
hold more
between them
than just me
so instead
I silenced my wrists
with white bandages
and closed the document
I had double checked for attachment.

Instead of opening veins,
instead of exploring
an invaded space,
I waited - patiently
until it was safe
until it was posted and
published for all to see.

I'm rhyming.

It's late.
I'm drunk.
And not pretty.
It's all very trite, really.

But...

How about I am better than that.
How about I am better than the overlap,
the goddamn rhyming couplet.
How about I am a liar, and the worst kind,
fucking posing for a poet.

I am a contraction upon myself that I can't release -

And I have a terrible habit of getting everything I ask for.

Exploritorium

Yesterday, I died.
I was warned,
I had notice,
from the
Cheshire cat.
With muses
circling the room,
I lay down,
dressed all in blue,
and boarded the ship.
Please, tell Headlong,
of my death.
And if you see my twin,
please tell her:
"Beware the embrace of
the Cheshire cat."

untitled

Learning how
to wake again
to a smile
with the memory
of your existence

Still.

With the break

Now
without need
or want or plan.

It’s been a while

Since deepset grey
had cause to
Notice
the
sutured scar
under her
pale straw
Feathers -

Since she was
Plucked
Bare
Prepared
for
Roasting
Basting
Grilling

Waiting

Just out of
reach of
the glare of
the Cheshire Cat.

Incantation

Shhhhh.

It will come to you
unexplained
without pretension
or expectation.

The addiction
from a past
no longer yours
or
never yours
but for your
blood

Will
wane with the moon,
never subsiding
but becoming
full then half to the
cresent smile of the
Cheshire Cat
laughing at you
from above.

But

Remember
the eclipse
and your moment
of redemption,
the Sun,
in your blackest
hour of replanting.

Shhhhhh.

Rest your black heart,
your weary mind,
your cramped hand
for a moment
in the space
between.

Rest for a moment
beside the candle
of your hand and

Pause

to see –

if blind
with your
ears –

if deaf
with your heart –

if dead

with the life
that surrounds you
with eyes
and ears
and hearts
Open
to images
captured
repainted
replanted
relived
in the

Silence

of the
space between.

Shhhhhh.

It will come to you
unexplained
without pretension
or expectation.

The muse you
crave is there
no here
in hand.

She is you.

un ange passe

white light of an angel, sensual and
sweet, illuminates the moving kaleidoscope circling angel's
witness of chaos fall from a child's
cheek to hand in a place as
mundane as soup on a cool fall
day. as all good mothers do, the
angel answers the wide-eyed child's difficult
question with the honesty of the learned:
"Love is the crossing of souls. It
is not emotional, physical, intellectual, but a
meeting between three. It remains, or passes
on, as souls do. There is no
shame in honest love, shame not the
honest love." kaleidoscope blurs, as white light
almost blinding, dries the chaos on deepset
grey's out stretched pink finger printed tips.

Until you return.

In day I think of you.
In night I dream of you.
Be safe.
Do well by us.
Do well by yourself.
Drink....water.
Stop Drop and Roll.

Come home to the East Coast,
but not before you
extinguish that fire
that has kept you away
since high school.

Remember:
bread then butter.
tad's dance moves.
the first metro sexual we ever knew.
drinking toilet water - twice.
being held at gun point by a moving picture.

Your promise from my yearbook.

I love you, Jared.
Be safe.

what fills our glass

deepset grey whispers,
with hand to ear,
"Air."
saphire turns an eye
to the tabled glass,
one third water,
smiles in recognition,
and says,
"life sources
always fill
our glasses full".

windswept without a plan

possible deaths:

rotating engines of a 747.
not to mention the windsheild
of a Boeing jet.
stomaches of greater birds.
sharp beaks of lesser birds.
the flying v in formation
without room for one more.
singed wings from
flying too close to the sun.
the lull of birthing waters
before a squall.
man's tatooed hands.
migratory neglect.
Starvation.

From the Dali series;

The Disintegration of Matter

The persistence of memory
Splitting
across conflicting schools of thought –

Suspended over the exterior world,
I am
immersed in the interior
landscape of the mind.

The uncertainty principle of
the exterior world
criss-crosses against
my father Freud
to a point where
all I can see is
a wedding dress
and broken glass.

The barren landscape
points in no other direction but
towards nuclear physics
and the annihilation of
Hiroshima.

To My Stillborn Love:

Denouncing Picasso
means nothing
when racked by the
binge and purge disease.

You are careless.
Incomplete.
Consumed by ADD.

cabaret

the boy who loves mud
found himself a girl.

so precise in rain spray,
in the art of biting remarks,
the boy who loves mud
slow dances in the ambient light
of the late night cabaret,
then leaves for a quick word,
a hug from a transient friend.

his girl closes her eyes,
continues the sway of her hips,
until he returns to fill the space he left.

the boy who loves mud
found himself a girl.

the breakup

then

flaming red says "I like your skirt."

space divide riftspan silence blackest depths smile strained eyes framed red settle moments long unspoken word echos between lies told see streaming lips promise broken to live chaos switch turn settle to dust i settled for more or less? flames burn defiant she turns beyond chaos

and

deepset gray calls: "Thanks."

24 Haikus

9pm

At 8’o’clock sharp,

The Bald Soprano opened.

Twenty-three shows left.

10pm

The doorbell sounded.

A tune filled the dining room.

It was “Three Blind Mice”.

11pm

True fatigue simmers.

Briefly stalled with sandwiches.

Beware the triptophan.

12am

That show was quite smooth

But Keith pondered the question,

“Wow that was just four?!”

1am

Punch to Adam’s face

Oh, sweet self inflicted wound!

Own worst enemy.

2am

All the bars have closed,

Cigarettes in the booth,

A brown mustache falls.

3am

Dearest Delante,

You know you are our sunshine

You are our bouquet

4am

Body getting tired

Neck and shoulders tight, so tight

Muscles atrophy.

5am

Sleep deprivation,

Sinks his teeth into the air.

Still rockin! We don’t care!

6am

“haiku in a snowstorm”

7am

When the doorbell rings

Sometimes there is someone there.

Other times, there’s not.

8am

Laughter has broke free

Like a shot of fresh canned cheese

Aiming for your mouth.

9am

Breakfast was tasty.

The comedy was tasty.

The “Fun Cheez” was not.

10am

Quiet audience

But one man has been sitting

For at least eight shows.

11am

I’m out of haikus

It saddens me a little

To have no more poems.

12pm

Wigs are falling off

A bit of fixing helps them

To get them back onstage.

1pm

Damn good energy.

Toss around a ball of yarn.

Do the roboto.

2pm

We’re still going strong.

Bobbi Block laughs for Adam.

Mary moves sexy.

3pm

Bigger crowd baby!

Awkward silences, big laughs.

Spit-take not so great.

4pm

Fast, silly, and bald.

Krishna Murti Manchester.

Fire Chief molested.

5pm

Sleep will rule again!

Rings around the eyes, glow brightened

Like being on drugs.

6pm

One more show to go.

Now a naked Fire Chief

Sends chills through the crowd.

7pm

To the top, my friends.

The last the same as the first.

Leave it all behind.

from the first

lightening cracked
and with the trembling
of your knees
i knew that i could wait
forever to be
your girl
in a yellow dress
circling, circling,
forever in pace
without turn.

forever would be the moment that
i was, am,
the true essence of a girl,
who revels in the
true beauty of woman.
for now i am simply, always
the girl next door,
fool in the rain,
standing still,
as always
the song remains the same.

free

i am a free flying bird.
i fly on the wind,
where broken egos
easily mend.

untitled

the ocean's ever
changing moods soothe
uneven rifts of
wood and glass
washed up on
shore - pulls sand
into depths, relies
solely on the
whim of the
moon to direct
passion and anger
and the creatures
that bathe and
thrive and multiply
in birthing waters
older than time.

the moon's ever
changing face pulls
tides in, out -
a contradiction in
twists, in turns,
against earth, but
remains still steadfast
even when overcome,
forgotten in the
rays of sun.

earth takes in
turn the brunt
of each ever
changing cycled season
as life thrives
and multiplys she
embraces survival with
out full knowledge
or anger towards
the savage beasts
that consume her
days and nights,
turning ever in
the wake of
the pull of
ocean and moon.

their dark sides
remain cratered, scarred -
Ocean, Moon, Earth -
cycled in time.













El amor no espera a ningún hombre, ni mujer.
Envejecido y se cambiar en ciclos de tiempo,
El amor espera sólo la verdad.

Love does not wait for any man, nor woman.
Aging and changing in cycles of time,
Love waits only for truth.

Dear Picasso,

how can you be
so careless
so incomplete
so ADD
as to
purge the
skirts you chase
as easily as
a disagreeable
meal?
are you
so blinded
by the
liberty
afforded
by
art
that
you can't feel
a broken
heart beating
beneath you?
or is that what
drives you -
the pain you feel
at leaving
the painted
tainted
behind?
echoes
of her
your
broken heart
beat,
move your hands
with rhythm and
life that
you can't duplicate
by any other means?
how can you be
so careless
so incomplete
so ADD
that in all your desire
you miss her
desire
to please
to bed
to complete
that which is
incomplete
for more
than a few
waves of
pleasure?
beware.
your life
is public
domain,
my friend,
and for all
the
pleasure
you give
you are
an open book
carelessly
incomplete
with your
ADD.

Slaughterhouse Five: A Found Poem

No art is possible without a dance with death.
But the burning never stops hurting
and all there is to say is,
"I know. I know. I know."

So it goes.

A planet that has been engaged in senseless slaughter
must be the terrors of the universe.
How can planets live at peace
when there is free will?

So it goes.

They all want dignity.
Yet the main effect of war is that people
are disconnected from being
characters
and there will always be wars because
they are as easy to stop as
glaciers.

So it goes.

Everything is supposed to be quiet
after a massacre,
and it always is.
Except for the birds.

POW-TEE-WEET?


Composed by: Nomi Duech, Crystal Austin, and Sara Waxman
STHS, April 1999

in between

Something not quite fitting between you and me and he.
Only subtleties web us together.
A criss cross of wires in the booth, the catcher above his bed,
left you and me missed by he.

A rearrangement of rooms forces the catcher above my head –
entraping bodies in dreamscapes filled with prima ballerinas
dancing within the stripped rib cages of giant swans.

The purple walls spill translucent light
as the dancers come in thrusts between me:

You and He.

out loud

days of heat and pressure
raise the temperature
day to day
as i am reminded of a contract
from so long ago
made on the floor of
my bedroom
with tears of
wanting spilling onto
pages unwritten
written and scrawled.
i live in unconditional love
brimming with
heart aches, day breaks,
rain plays, and the curing of hiccups.
the contract i signed
promises forever to be
a measure of
my failure today.
but it is in today that
i am invincible.
failure waits but
will have to
wait as
moments of stillness
of falling into stars
of touching hands
on cool hard stone
of hiccups cured
by eye contact and slow breath
triumph.
tremors
that follow,
vibrations and ripples,
remind me of the possibility
of failure
but
i am invincible
because i live
in truth -
words out loud
sound out my
desire
laying
my soul
my skin
my scar
bare for
everyone to see.
i am self conscious
but i am not afraid of
the consequences.
i am invincible.

pixie dust

my dreams
hold pixie dust
sprinkled over
seven years of
giving way,
dust swept
away by
stopping words
blown in
just as it settles.

he always said
his girls
scalped their
heads after
being with him.

my scalping
stripped away
the last fiber of
giving way,
leaving me
simply as
i am.

i am
the eight year
old child
that every woman
remembers -

my girl
clinging tight to
tree tops for
hours as they swayed -
butterflies
jumping in
her not yet
developed breast,
dancing
in anticipation
of the fall.

an angel
sensual and sweet,
tells me my child
is my core.
she takes me by the waist,
leans her head on my shoulder
and asks about the
fading rainbow i saw today.

i tell her the
secrets of his eyes
and how i cried
when he left,
tasting tears
i don't - won't - can't
understand,
and how i
wonder if pixie dust
settles around him
or is blown
away by
his winds.

free bird

i am a free flying bird.
i fly on the wind,
where broken ankles
easily mend.

quarters

i can't breathe
with these tears
i can't breathe
from these screams
i thought
i thought
i thought
if i spoke out
if i sought advice
the answers would come
and they came
in the form
i can't breathe
i can't breathe
of words.
i never thought words could,
would hurt me.
i thought by telling the
world i would learn.
i would.
i would.
the world gave me
answers,
told me to speak,
breathe
to breathe
they counted my
grey hairs and
asked why i cried,
was crying
was screaming
i can't breathe
i'm falling
i'm falling
when i fell.

Why There is Light at Night

Every morning Spider and his family wake with a sweet tooth.
Theirs is a hunger that stems from deep night dreams.
Spider, his two sons, and wife Aso, wake craving the tallest tree fruit -
which is the only cure for a morning sweet tooth.

Each morning, Spider and his family look up to the trees
and day dream of the sweets that are only the birds' to eat.
Spider says, "If only I had wings, I could beat those birds to the sweet!"

So Spider and his boys decided to build some wings.

They went to the ground and gathered feathers dropped in flight
And took them to the town magician in the blackest of night.
In magician - magic speak,
Spider was told "Flight is a dangerous thing -
if the birds catch you there will be no sweet."

But Spider's ears were full of echos from his family's sweet tooth
and he secretly laughed at the magician's advice saying,
"Those birds won't know, we'll blend in with our fallen wing flight!"

So Spider and his boys built themselves some wings.
But in flying off each and every night,
the magician's magic speak came back
with the birds pecking and cawing, shreeking
"Swweeet! Swweeet Sweeeeeeeet! Sweeet!"

Those birds chased Spider and his boys straight back to the ground.
Where they crawled, humbled home, to Aso who shook her head
saying "Spiders aren't birds."

Spider went to bed dreading his morning sweet tooth,
but he dreamt this dream now that sure cleared his head.

Spider dreamt that he was a bird circling the morning sky -
looking for something tasty, crunchy, and sweet to eat.
Seeing the fruit, Spider soared down from the sky and
pecked three big holes in each fruit side.
But Spider didn't taste the sweetness of fruit,
he crunched on the sweetness of bugs from the fruit!!!

Spider woke with a start and turned to his wife.
"We are spiders my dear and do as we do,
let's spin us a web to catch them some food!"

So Spider and his family went quietly to work,
spinning a web that would cover the sky
to trap the birds favorite food:
the big butt fire fly.

Days upon days
the spiders kept spinning -
until a gaint web covered the night,
trapping, for the birds, delectible balls of light.

The fire flies were trapped by the time morning birds woke,
and they feasted on lights, while Spider and his family feasted on fruit.

From that day on,
the spiders kept spinning,
the web kept on growing,
and both the spiders and birds feasted on gold.

caught

i could feel the beginnings -
no resistantance, no push to create,
just a ripple between us
now a ripple in space -

momentary vibrations
for which i will wait.

The Church at 4th and Christian

I sat among aged old wood today
and cried as whiffs of decay
floated out from among the rafters.
The space was ours for a time,
but last night came the gunshots, the searchlight,
and today the rattling of barracaded doors.

This afternoon, when I climbed the stairs
and sat among the aged old wood after everyone had gone,
I saw -
above our sanctuary, above my head
the roof was caving in.

There among the aged wood I cried for
the gunshots, searchlights, and the sound of your retreating footsteps.
I sat, after everyone had gone,
and cried for the playing space
that had once housed faith.