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.

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.