Sara

laughs when i say the "h" is extraneous.

i watch as she decorates a cookie
green with purple icing,
swirling ties that shift
with a small flick of her wrist.

he says, "it's very asian."

behind a self deprecating smile
she replies "exactly as planned".

she can't know
the choice she made
two years ago
shifted my universe
completely,

set me here

watching intently -


i have cultivated
an apathetic manner
for moments such as these.

she hands over hot apple cider,
keeps whiskey and water,
as i paint a lopsided
christmas tree a purple stump,
green leaves, adding a fudged star,
and little gingerbread men
all too small for the scene.

not exactly the
styling i was going for
but i was distracted
as i am

watching

this
ethereal woman
i've never met
in my dreams.

Neutral Scene

A: It's so weird in here
B: yes
A: Where's your team
B: offsite
A: ...
B: tomorrow
A: ...
B: what will all this look like
A: An outer line - extending out
B: i've seen
A: Inside a room
B: and here
A: Much like there
B: like there
A: Like here
B: good
A: Yes
B: no cattle stalls i hope

A:

torn out, magnolia tree

mental block rim front -
plush grey dust bunnies
at my eyelids
jump in unison
to block your
question before me -
plans fall fast
as yesterday spirals
out my ears
in iridescent webs
before the imprint
can settle behind my eyes -
what day it is
fades fast from memory
as thought lines,
venn diagrams,
drip down and out
to twist upon the matted tissue
in my lap -
webfoot ed
falsify ed memories
form streams of
needless excuses
on shredded kleenex

as walls break way
with the annihilation
of an age.

while you were in the bathroom...

spherical / metamorphosis
cocooning in ourselves
exponential / expansion
revolving out upon itself
iridescent / web
trapping us between -

you and me

and this tangent
on the American Dream.

city hall/suburban

forest under the subway/concrete secretions/blue peaking through/just past/ a soothsayer's broken arm/midnight calling to the morning rush/hush/walking on/two blind prophets sing/ one speak easy guide dog/an armed guard towering above/wishing well/a change charmer's silver bowl

offering up

a quarter of his worth.

shelf life

i'd break those glass eyes
if we didn't have long range
planning to get through.

untitled

Tonight
is a night
to sit on the moon.
Hammock in misty,
hopped edges of gold.
Tongue the stars
until black clouds
envelop the sky.

a!

she says over mock meatballs,
vegetable egg rolls,
sweet and sour sludge:

"...it's a heavy burden -
having the capacity to
return to the past,
while simultaneously
looking to the future...

in case i've missed it:

...this human brain."

cowbuoy-ed bear
catty
foe collar-ed:
proud

wear your sweatshirts

find time to
send images
of baby hippos:
frail

skeletal
purple speckled
guinea rats

remind me
how you wouldn't

ever

put something out there
unless you could
speak it face to face

and for god sake
find me in the hallway
mid-break to dance.

of rosaline

Out, damned spot,
Out.
I command you
back, into the recesses

stop your fishing
act
Reeling me in to hook
me line and sinker

To you I say
Out
of grace, to you I
say be free
no apologies
just leave.

Sunday is My Birthday

and they've dredged Hillcrest Pond.

Drawn out the water, left a gaping hole -
that had always been, never seen.

Looks how my soul felt this morning -
sludge and mud, with a few brave ducks
carefully stepping among the rocks,
some trying to swim in an inch of water.

At left there is a stone wall
that keeps the river
where Odysseus sailed
through siren song -
Calypso -
the water monster -

Odysseus survived
thanks to the fishing line
we secured to his waist
and the death defying leap he
made into my hands
as Steve ignited the ship.

I siphoned gas from the lawnmower in my parents' garage,
Steve threw the match into ship's hull;
sprang the giant flames we chased down river,
once we realized we set a gasoline fire we couldn't stop.

Sunday is my birthday,
they've dredged Hillcrest Pond -

And somewhere there is a vhs,
where Odysseus
sails upon sirens,
lands upon Calypso,
and escapes unscathed
from his burning ship.

to amelia

completely, at a loss.

duelling stormed seas mus've
caught you, sucked you to the
bermuda triangle.

mornings were the best part -
trace your curves, soundlessly
take in last week's pin wheel
of stale cigarettes, each
complicated Haiku,
the circling race of the

3 am mistake.
styled mutiny this,
your blog, each line, run on
miles distant from this
still life of mine, lost in
the humdrum beat, mundane
as heartaches, daybreaks.

you left before we met.
yours was a reason, an
unexpected tread in
the waiting. cue the end.

No one can write the six
syllable line like you.

In Light

Love,
in Light,
I am here.

Stay
in Waiting,
in Stillness,
with me
until
the night
dissipates.

Do not second
guess your
purpose.

You have faced
darkness before
renamed her
and reclaimed her,
Outlived her.

You will do it again,
and with more on your back,
in your bag,
than ever before.

Bags are meant
to be filled
to be carried
to be emptied
into the hand
of others.

Friend,
here there
are those that
love you and
are holding our
hands and hearts
out to you.

Accept this Light,
this Love,
and let's make
it right.

Be Still -

Even in
darkness
You
and I
We
All
want
you to
stay -

You

Though Today,
you may live
enwrapped in
Shadows -

Trust the Light,
it will guide
from the
Inside
Out.

10 Minutes

Ten minutes till the show starts
Ten minutes -

Dibbles says "Working furiously, I can hear you're typing."
Then mimics the sound as she walks away - dee dee dee.

I smile.

She didn't see my screen,
she counters back,
the ladies walk by on their way
to the show -
stopping to tell me of
food babies,
Dibbles glances at my screen,
then leaves.

I wonder what she saw.

A minute and a half, and I realize
I'm not writing anything
of importance
nothing to be remembered
except to say
I smiled.

Alma Jean

for everyone who leaves;
who rescinds on the job;
Fuck You;
and the horse you rode in on.

buffering

truth lies
in love's non-existance,
life's breathe created
in sweat.

truth lies
in intellect, the solving
of small equations
1 + 1 = 2.

truth lies
in the 5am hour;
the lack of breathe
hearts open, hearts broken

truth lies
grows up, grows out
stops self medicating
on life , instead moves to death.

playground

tree houses lined with grass ceilings/ flowering magenta hues/ blue lit houses inside houses with pillows to portals/ curtains of worn linen above the going on below where grown children play jump rope double dutch/ no bra holding their chest close their german lessons computer lessons philosphy discussions closer/ in sectioned off sections painted pregnant alligator love/
no rules/
but ladders everywhere/
a blacony for private screenings feet above astrid free/ face on a giant screen mutated smiling turning rythm of the avant garde choir functioning on a dock of wild rides/race saltine crackers sixty seconds flat/ share home made popcorn spill't on the floor/ drive in back out breakdown/ all in the game of Art.

the doe

I ignore the rusted drum,
sit by the water,
and flip the Riverside open.
When my eyes begin to hurt -

I go for a Walk,
down a path twisted in vine,
find the tuffs before I find the bones.
Ivory licked clean months after -

She lay down to die alone,
the Portal of her eye,
open to the thumbnail moon.
In the cavity of her skull -

I am not afraid of the wolves,
nor these bones alone,
but the rusted drum at my back
Terrifies me.

Retraction

My mistake;
your Heart
is not to be printed
on the office supply of
Boca Standard Stock.
Much the same way
my Body
is not the weary traveller's
Rest Stop.

Lock Up

the best of my day
is the build up, the break down
and how the space breathes.

Camp 420

I have a picture of us.
I don't remember
how it wound up
on my computer,
when I scanned it in,
or who took it.

But it was taken before
we got stoned
out of our minds.

Just you and me
on the bank of the river,
side by side.

I am holding an American Flag,
wearing boy shorts and a tee,
braids down my back.

Today I remembered how,
behind the tarps
we rigged up to hide
families and their
kids from us kids
doing everything kids
do, but never supposed to,

You tried to climb a tree
out over that same bank
and fell face first
into the river.

And how you refused
to leave that bank,
instead danced with
the same American Flag
that someone,
I don't remember who,
handed you
between hits,
and how
you sang to
yourself,
and danced
for

Eight Hours

until you dried.

Pucker Up

Pucker up Mae West,
there’s something in the water.

Oil on the surface
beautiful in its separateness,
deadly in its own right.

Covering the surface,
oil is always one to reflect the light.

Pucker up Mae West
there’s something under my skin.

Relentless as probing fingers
pushing
driving
me
to become
the oil,
to reflect the light
and to … sep - a - rate.

Pucker up Mae West
I’m the one to watch.

With just one,
simple promise -
I am the oil
deadly in my own right.

Discrete, all-knowing,
guilty in my
reflection

of light.

So, pucker up Mae West.
You fooled them once,
I can do it twice.
Pucker up.
Pucker up.

Kiss your legend

while I kiss my soul

Goodbye

24 Hour The Bald Soprano

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 Booth

On June 29, 2007, BRAT Productions took over The Wilma Theatre in Philadelphia. With a cast of six and a crew of four, the 24 Hour The Bald Soprano ran on the hour every hour for 24 hours.

2 am.
I have to stand up. I pace around the conference table in the booth, keeping my eye and ear to the stage. I pick up my third cup of cold, stale coffee. I put it down without a sip. I light an illegal cigarette, smoke it, put it out in our ash cup. I pace in front of our command station. I sit down. I look to Richards, she’s checking the time, sending a text, waiting for the next cue that will come in ten minutes. Something doesn’t feel right. At a time when, in an alternate universe, I would be swapping out and giving in to sleep, I look to the stage and feel a misstep in our connection. I feel a lag, and I feel the need to change up, energize NOW. I turn, and say to Richards, “We need a dance party.” With a tired smile she stands and hooks up her I-pod. We dance and sing for five minutes, it feels forced, but when we sit down again, I feel a little better. Yet, my energy and the energy onstage is not the same, that misstep has not been fixed. Our sixth consecutive show ends, and I ask the ASM, Delante, over the headset, “How are the actors?” He comes back, exhaustion and strain in his voice where I’ve never heard it before. “Okay. Some of the actors feel others are going too far, pushing too hard.” Dissention in the ranks. Funny, I didn’t see this with my eyes happening onstage, but I feel it in our energy as a whole. There is a strain happening, an uneven give and take occurring in our space. Richards and I, Delante, and the actors are not on the same page. During our next ten minute break between cues, I close our vocal connection with Delante, and lean over to Richards.

“Let’s sing to Delante.”
“What are we going to sing?”

In the terrible, tone deaf way that I am prone to, I sing to her.
She joins in, and in a matter of minutes, we have a round going between us.
I press the button and connect to Delante.

Me: “Hey Delante…”
Richards: “Hi Delante…”
Richards: “We just…”
Me: “We wanted to tell you something…”
And, giggling, together we sing:

“You are my sunshine,
My only sunshine,
You keep me happy,
When skies are grey,
You’ll never know dear,
How much I love you,
Please don’t take my sunshine away.”

Dead air, then Delante comes back.

“Well I guess it would be nice,
If I could touch your body,
I know not everybody
has got a body like yoooooou.”

And then we’re all singing together, TERRIBILY:

“Well, I gotta think twice,
before I give my heart away
And I know all the games you play
‘cause I’ve played them tooooooo.”

We break into laughter, and push on.

The next set of cues comes and goes, ending in an escalation of earsplitting clock chimes, translucent walls, the actors screaming “IT’S NOT THAT WAY IT’S OVER HERE!”. Then black out, lights up, and we begin again, our 8th consecutive show and counting. Charlotte and Keith sit as the Smiths, with Sarah and Adam on deck as the Martins. Reinforcements arrive, as only Madi can do – an upper, a downer, and a beautiful boy. But even with the reinforcements, exhaustion pulls, tugs at us, pulling attentions in different directions.

Once alone and between cues, Richards and I plot how to steady ourselves, how to let the actors know that we are right there with them, even in this late hour of complete exhaustion.

“We could flick the lights up here.”
(pause)
“Write a note on the window.”
(pause)
“Walk the catwalk.”
(pause)
“Throw paper airplanes.”
“From the catwalk.”
(silence)

“What if at the end of this show, we open the booth window, and scream ‘It’s not that way it’s over here’ with the actors?”
“I could use a good scream.”
“Yeah, me too.”
“Let’s do it.”

And so, eyes to the stage, we watch and wait as we have done 7 shows before, only this time we have a different role to play ourselves and so are reinvested in the action onstage. The anticipation builds, almost eerily in tune with the chiming of the clock, until Richards and I are on our feet hitting cues, sliding the booth window open, joining the actors, and screaming with all our might into the black “IT’S NOT THAT WAY IT’S OVER HERE! IT’S NOT THAT WAY IT’S OVER HERE! IT’S NOT THAT WAY IT’S OVER HERE! IT’S NOT THAT WAY IT’S OVER HERE!”

Lights up and FUCK. Sarah sits as Mrs. Smith, and I can see (feel?) she’s shaken. I whisper, “She’s pissed.” And Richards and I settle into position, set for the first round of cues. I sit on the edge of my chair watching Sarah intently, hoping that I am mistaken, and that she isn’t pissed, she’s fine, all’s right in this world we have spent a month creating, 48 hours perfecting, and 8 hours living. But no, I am not mistaken; Richards and I have overstepped our bounds. The stage is the stage, the booth is the booth, and they do not, DO NOT meet without prior consent. Then why do I suddenly feel alive and connected? Why do I feel the rush of adrenaline that I feel with the opening of a show? I look at Richards, she looks more alert, more awake then I have seen her in hours. I look to the stage, and although Sarah was shaken, she has fallen back into the rote of our show. And here come the others, onstage, who appear more committed, more alive. Or is that just my imagination, the high of my newfound energy? No. There’s a new, refreshed energy to the space, I can feel it, but I can also feel the ripple from the shock wave Richards and I sent through the actors.

Enter the Fire Chief.

Nate is prone to practical jokes, and the director has given him free reign. So far, he has done a show where 1) he handed out candy to the actors and audience., 2) done the Roboto for the duration of his scene, 3) entered without pants or a shirt, in black boxer briefs, with his nipples painted white, 4) brought water with him onstage and done spit takes at every conceivable moment possible and mostly in the other actors faces. I pray to god he doesn’t have something like that up his sleeve.

Richards says, “What’s that in his pocket?” And in slow motion it seems, Nate withdraws a can of FunCheez.

Before I realize it I’m saying, “No, No, No. Don’t do it Nate, don’t do it. Sarah’s going to kill him. She’ll never eat it. She’ll kill him first.” But my heart is beating a million miles a minute and calling, “Yes! Heee.heee.hee.hee. D-do it. D-do it. D-do it.” She addresses him, and Nate turns to Sarah, lifts his hand and slowly brings the FunCheez to her mouth. She can’t say no, and, so, opens her mouth and takes it. I can’t imagine how disgusting it is, but she continues on through her line as he feeds her more and more. Finally after her line ends and she sits, he moves onto Adam, then Keith, and finally Charlotte. They each take their turn, continuing as best they can through the scene with a mouth full of FunCheez. Nate even gives himself a shot, and the audience is going nuts. But in the booth, between laughs, we’re going “Where in the hell did he get that? We’ve got to get them some water. And how old is that FunCheez? How long has it been in the Wilma’s greenroom?” We connect to Delante.

Then-

Enter Jess, The Maid, as she’s done before, only this time with a tray containing glasses of water and napkins. And when Nate comes at her with the FunCheez, she reaches into her pocket, pulls out a cracker, and has a picnic. The show goes on. And together, we are HERE. Together we will run this show for 24 hour straight. For this moment, there is nothing but the stage, the booth, and the in between. We are all. We are together. There is nothing else.

hi you

catching me in form,
surprised at the link from he,
whose content are you?

Traded In

Pulling the front two loops on his jeans
together with tie line -
a perfect little knot -
Sapphire says,
"I haven't bought a new belt yet."

Trading in black
for a forest green
North Face fleece,
tie line for
a belt,

Sapphire lights another cigarette
and moves on his way.

Our Dream...

02/21/08
~
I am dreaming
that
I am walking on the moon.
With chairs.
Chairs that press down into water.
I found some sea weed that tased like licorice.
Out onto cement.
I stepped out of the water onto the cement and there was a restaurant.

...

I stepped from the moon to the earth.
The moon was next to the earth.
I went and told Ms. Waterman and she said,
"We're going to have to do something about that."
The moon changed from yellow to orange like last night.
I woke up.
~

To The Moths and Bats at My Back;

Gentlemen,

Before you open your mouths,
before you profess your love,
or lack there of;

Please, educate yourselves
on the nature of me.

Many Thanks,
Yours Truly,

Scoober

Because I Love Women

I am condemned to the Seventh layer of hell.

Guarded by the Minotaur,
the fury,
and encircled within the river Phlegethon,
filled with boiling blood;
The violent, the assassins,
the tyrants, and the war-mongers
lament their pitiless mischiefs
while centaurs armed with bows and arrows
shoot those who try to escape their punishment.

The stench here is overpowering.

Home to the wood of the suicides-

Stunted and gnarled trees,
in twisting branches,
poisoned fruit
hanging from their branches -

The Harpies,
foul birdlike creatures
with human faces,
make their nests.

Beyond the wood
is scorching sand
where those who
committed violence
against God and nature
are showered
with flakes of fire
that rain down against
their naked bodies.

Blasphemers and sodomites
writhe in pain,
their tongues
loose to lamentation,
and out of their eyes
gushes forth their woe.

Usurers,
who followed
neither nature nor art,
also share company in the Seventh Level.

Because I love women,
find solace in a smile,
a hug from a friend -

Because I love
midnight talks,
our round table,
fishbowl of goddesses,
and our endless
beehive dance -

Because I love the
expansion of your lungs,
the vibrancy of your fury -

Because I love,
upon greeting,
how you tuck your nose
into the nape of my neck,
breathe in the scent
of the jasmine powder
I dust on each morning -

Because together we revel
in the beauty of womanhood -

Because I love -

I am condemned to the Seventh layer of Hell.

A Mother's Kiss

"You might stand next to the fire;
if only to feel the heat.
And it'll be hot.
But for goodness sake,
don't step directly into it.
There's no sense in
burning yourself."

Narcissa

is as
she does.

The Parting Gift

One pill.
Two pill.
Red pill.
Blue pill.

One to make you taller.
One to make you smaller.
Two is greater than one.
One is stronger than two.

Red or Blue?

One pill.
Two pill.
Red pill.
Blue pill.

Red for the moment,
Blue to take in time,
The two together
make for a fantastically
fucked up rhyme.

One pill.
Two pill.
Red pill.
Blue pill.

Still stiff as a board,
Even with the help
of each passing
cocktail;

One pill.
Two pill.
Red pill.
Blue pill.

All together, now.
Swallow the poison
for an indigo haze,

translucent skin.

One vein.
Two vein.
Red vein.
Blue vein.

One to the heart.
One to the lung.
Red or Blue?
No matter -

It’s all recycled blood.

One vein.
Two vein.
Red vein.
Blue vein.

Open wide,
captured time.
Turn the world
upside right

too late.

One pill.
Two pill.
Red vein.
Blue vein.

the key

I swallowed the key
to bind a contract,
from a long time ago.

Remember? I told you.

The contract,
made on the floor of
my bedroom
with tears of
wanting spilling onto
pages unwritten
written and scrawled -

Only once did I
attempt to extract it
to save it
to unlock
my cage,
but
couldn't commit
couldn't remember
that it was lodged in
my gut (no one ever told me),
not my heart,
and so am left
with a scar
in the wrong place
marking my mistake
my failure
as proof
I am undesirable.

Sometimes I forget,
about the key
about my scar

I am reminded though,
not by the sight of it,
my scar,
or the sick of it,
my key,
but by the gifts they give,
in passing,
before they leave.

pressed petals.
a ring of glass.
wind chimes.
sunflowers.
dog tags.
an alligator clip.
a patterned tea cup.
a bedtime story.

See,
they give
only
trinkets
found
in passing,
some small something
that reminded them of me,
or rather something to remind
me of them once they leave.

Never something
to keep,
to unwrap,
to unfold,
to nurture,
in their Presence -

Only something to
tangle,
untangle,
shatter,
kill,
and rebirth
over and over
in their Absence.

And so,
my scar
remains.
And
the key
remains
lodged
until
I throw it up
or shit it out
or digest it
completely
out of existance.

what i've heard of you

comes from your lips.

blue walls
covered in script.

repainted

replantings
on a type writer
still typing
even after death,

reborn to a future
of retypes
replacements
and re-edits.

sweat covered bottles
drowning the rain.

rainbows
infringing
on the last night.
the last cigarette.

until the next
brings smoke
to your lips,
tounges your lungs.

the reintroduction
of your death.

creative bliss
at the hands of
a self indulgent mother.
the pet project task masker
who built you a home

white washed to mask
the blue, the script
of a fevered mind, to shakle
the shaking riddled hand.

Risen
from this cage
a Phoenix;
enflamed wings
singeing the soul
of those
windswept without
stories of their own.

Bitter winds whip beaks,
tickle the under belly
of those
too afraid
of their own shadow
to fly free.

Instead,

we line up in
formation
beak to tail

as the
Phoenix

draws Circles
on the wind.

The Manifest

You've tired of dancing.

It doesn't work
when everyone leads,
and there's no follow.

Or one dances the blues
while the other tries
to swing, or lindy, or foxtrot
or whatever.

You're like a goddamn
drunk detective
trying to decipher
children's rhymes
wedding photos
the moon's smile.

In search of...

What?

Thought -
Robert Plant?
Hercules?
The father to
the blond daughter
you meet
every now and again
in you're dreams?

Child,
you were never
special.

The waltz is
a dance from
before your
time,
boxy and awkward
on a girl
as locked as you.

You're surprised
when you get what
you ask for -

when you let
your guard down
with the help of
summer rain
roof plays
and good beer?

Girl,
you've been
had by all
that before;

the master plan,
man's tattooed hands.

Congratulations, dear,
you have finally
found love.

And lost your innocence,
your writer's smile.


Vicious.
Venomous.
Vexing.
Uncontrollable
and Inconsolable.

Everything you
never wanted to be
all because you
asked before thinking,
gave it away
without gaining -

the full story.

Woman,
you are in love
with a man
who has made you his
enemy.

You've got your own
story now.

It's a shame
that this lying in wait,
keeps you from finding
the words to keep it.

I'll help you along.

Push through
with words of
wisdom -

FORK

Woman,
Laugh at yourself.

Child,
Love yourself.

Girl,
Live with yourself.

It's all you can do.

mistaken identity

Your paintings never tell the rooftop view.

Never show the sweat from our beers
cooling the evening humidity
against separate palms.

Never reflect bottle necks
forgotten by the fluidity of
innocence.

Never replicate
death gasps or
compartmentalize
the childless mother
the motherless child
in the dark sluttish corners
of the mind.

How they were
hung out to dry in cobbed webs,
mentioned, discussed, then
forgotten for the night
by the repetition of a
mutual catching of breathe
by one, then the other.


an accidental brush of fingertips against the wrist
as silver ringed fingers met silver bracelet tips
to say;

Look, we are the same.

Our likeness, that which
drew us together,
disintegrates with
each question
each false answer
each moment of retreat
into sluttish corners,
soiled bed sheets.

But as you did, I do -
recycle the pain -
never allow in moments
before we met,
when we were left
by another -
when hearts suddenly
contracted upon themselves
and only released upon
the turning of stones,
which never amounted to
anything but
a new contraction
against a heart
no longer strong
enough to fight.

Here is the sound of silver bracelets saying;

Look, we are the same.

I am tired of the questions,
the times when we are together
and more alone then ever.

I am ready to relinquish our mistakes.

I want yours.
I want to give you mine.
I want to release what we have made into ours.

I want to be face to face and
find a new rooftop and good beer.
I want to say;

Look, we are the same.

and move on in a different way.

I Will

free write 01.05.08

Tommorow I'm going to go to Race Street Friends.
I will wake up early.
I will buy tokens.
I will NOT DRIVE.
I will wear suspenders,
If only to suspend my amythest haze.
I will plan only what is needed for movement.
I will get lost.
I may get found (blight?)
I will look up the definition of blight.
I will be parted

down the seam and not
question where I am carried

even if it is experimental.
I will love the music of
those I find
I will rest
I will keep my eyes open

to the rain
to the shine

I will flux with not knowing
I will double up with

myself and the other

I will wear no underwear.
I will pause to think

about the fact that I am not
wearing any underwear.

I will be frantic.
I will be hysterical.
I will be fine.
I will be beautiful and see that beauty
I will celebrate like it's my birthday
I will wear my birthday suit

urgently momentarily

I will eat cake
I will wear my mother's slip

with pride

I will think of baseball.
I will catch asteroids and

send them on their way
as shooting stars.

I will be
I will be

fine

alright.

Me and Lloyd

01.05.08

I am free.
But locked away
with no key.

Outside is contained
within the mind
all thought through
constant revolving doors.

Inside is womb
floating echoing warmth
free as dreams
with no key.

In Light

Light

in the 

reaching out

the meeting 

the music 

still revolving

in my car stereo;

Luminecence's 

Twilight.

Light in

the prayer

before you

place food

to your lips,

in the mantra 

beads hung

from your neck.

Light

in the words

"I'll leave after

one more,"

in the silence of

your stillness,

with hands upon

the knees -

But there is a

grey that I am

having trouble 

following -

the breaks 

in thought

with giggles

and laughter

belonging only

to you.

Grey in

the violence 

you mention,

the descriptions

of light and dark,

the explanation of

the little evil 

following me

around.

But the Light.

You are inspired,

a muse unto yourself,

but the grey seems

to be filtering in.

Love,

in Light,

I am here.

Stay.

in Stillness 

with me until

the grey 

dissipates.

Friend,

here there

are those that

love you and

are holding our

hands and hearts

out to you.

Accept this Light,

this Love,

and let's make

it right.

It's all evil.

Yes -

but 

Still

You 

and I

We

All

want 

you to

stay -

You 

in

Light.

You

are worth

more than

only a split 

moment of 

Stillness,

of just one 

Song.

Take the time

to be still

and make

your song right.