at night you lay turning like a door on its hinges...first on your left side, then on your right side, then on your left side again...

counting the days:

when i was younger than my oldest days,
i would trace my toes
in your gravel, dirt path
and count the tire tracks
that the wind had etched.
and when i was the oldest i had ever been,
i would blink at the hum of the stars
and pretend i owned your dog
because you loved her
and the way her tail never tired.
and when i couldn't get any younger,
i would secretly misplace my shoes
and hug your little brother
until i forgot what date
my birthday was supposed to be.

if you'd rather be a window, i'd gladly be the frame.....

these are some older pieces i found. as always feel free to tell me what you think...

1. riding the conrail twitty:

a hindu-clothed jamaican jew
stuck on the floor of a cat's cradle.
sorry for loving grandmothers
and taking the face of mine.
sorry for confusing dance with compulsions
and tying genres together on my cassettes.
a ballerina, night driving, pseudo-hippie
stroking your strands of outdoorsy adventure
and not sorry at all. for now.


2. (untitled)

everything is waiting-
the maples clutch to their brown leaves,
refusing to shutter in the wind.
the birds nod on the shingles above my room.
they will not spread their feathers
today, probably not tomorrow either.
they are waiting.

there is something hidden
behind the peach sunsets
and the scent lingering in the air
of plowed fields and shooting stars.

i don't know why they wait
and i can't say why i won't.
maybe in my way, i'm waiting too.
for the leaves to turn green
and the flocks to return
and for the warmth to burn
away the remnants of this.

if you're looking for a blanket, sweetie, i'm sorry i'm no sort of fabric. but if you need a tailor- take your torn shirt and stumble up my stairs...

so this piece is not one of my favorites...but a lot of people seemed to like it....let me know what you think

bloodshot eyes-
(you're pink around the rims again
claiming you know
the difference between a smile and a breakdown,
a tree and a phone pole,
my leg and yours)
i could count the times you've stumbled in
if you'd stop singing "sweet chariot" to me.

shaking limbs-
(your friends with asterisks
will all self-destruct in time)
they know what you have to offer
on saturday night, and monday and wednesday
and thursday for that matter.
they see you for all those qualities
that morph you into one of your hated cliches.

swirling stomach-
(this world has maimed you)
the man you can be without your crutch
doesn't cough and feel steps give way.
he laughs and cries and dreams.
i'd take your poison and drain your blood
until it trickled back into your cheeks
if i thought it's actually matter.
until then, raise your glass, make a toast,
and wake up holding your head.

he's like a less cute version of you...he's like a walmart version of you...but he'll have to do...

never again.
i won't allow your pelvic thrusts
and the bottle you keep beside your bed
convince me otherwise.

i saw it
as you sat indian style
in your tub of warm water,
the shower spitting raindrops
on the arctic creatures of your boxers.
i was sitting on the ledge-
like a mother, letting you pretend
my black painted fingernails were your sailboat.
and when you turned your back to me,
i stroked your soaked curls
and let my eyes trace
drops down the curve of your spine.
and when you nodded off
between sips of your waterlogged beer,
i wrapped my trembling hand
around your right foot and pretended
i was waking you up
from all your bad dreams.

i even prayed
that i could make the confusion
and pain and isolation
wash down the drain.
and when you awoke,
those brown eyes staring back,
i swear i saw a younger you inside-
before all the pills and doctor appointments.
i wrapped the towel around your unsteady body
and wished i could hug you-cure you.
and as i coaxed you to bed,
my first love, my most kindred spirit-
i wished you were mine,
that i could lay in your sheets, be your savior,
but i remembered all the dares
and sloppy kisses and fingertips
when we pretended to be so much older.

but never again.
the curse words and lighters and politics
couldn't fool me.
and as i tucked you in
i found i was the one dreaming
that adulthood could be found somewhere
in the scattered memories of our lives
and wishing this wouldn't be
the last time.

i'm not saying it was your fault, although you could have done more...oh you're so naive, yet so...

where do i go now? :

several hours or
several months
i couldn't remember.
i couldn't
escape or
breathe.

i counted
fifty seven roads.
i turned
i swerved
i drove,
but all i ever saw
was you.

you
had stolen
the street signs.
they had been
replaced,
but we all
knew
they would never
look the same.

comes the morning when i can feel that there is nothing left to be concealed...

my sediment crusted feet were propped on the narrow landing where the glove compartment met the windshield. the scent of the frog infested river refused to leave the half damp strands of hair curling in the wind. blinking with the drowsiness of a night spent camping, i glanced at you-then out the window-then at you again. i felt like an overgrown toddler-unsure of my surroundings, but exerting every ounce of energy to understand them. i knew the red polish on my toes had been chipped off, that there was a briar scratch across my left calf, that my mascara had smeared into oblivion. i wanted to feel beautiful in a mirror image of you. mornings would never shine across hills with ease. painted cement lines would never slur with cherry chapstick. in the style of your hated cliches, i had changed-folded into a bag, waterlogged. the temperature was dropping its degrees daily and you were driving me home.

in a town full of rubber plans to get rid of itself. it wears her out, it wears her out...

she was prepackaged. fate, or jesus, or buddha had determined her outcome. she lived in a town that had fallen asleep hundreds of years ago and had never woken up from the dream of blackbirds and pumpkin pies. she kept her distance from the scraggly teeth of the white haired turnip farmers and the oversized, over-washed sweatshirts of the mothers of the chapped lipped kids who stalked the streets that were desolate by five in the afternoon.

the town was destroying itself. it had been since the beginning of its existence. it never had a chance. the dirt was filled with the remains of those that had tried to stretch out towards the sun, but withered before their leaves could touch that area of the sky that songbirds and snowflakes originate from. it was like watching a friend huff a can of spray paint every day- so ridiculous she almost wanted to giggle at the scene presented before her, but at the same time feeling the natural dread of watching something close to you teetering on the edge of self-demolition. it wore her out.

the salty summers and indigo winters had been filled with the desires that so many on the edge of adulthood feel. the desires to branch out, to find solace in coffeehouses of bustling streets, to grasp onto the beatnik indie youths that reflected the ideals of the lost generation.

it was the yellow leaf that floated its way into the window of her rusty boxcar that caused the anxieties of denial to surface with the urgency of a child who has just swam the distance of the neighborhood's pool. it was her companion. it silently rode with her- only noticeable when it would flutter in the same winds that had brought it to its home on the gray passenger's seat.

for a week the golden leaf remained on its pedestal. by the time the restlessness had reached its peak, it was the warmest thursday morning of fall. she had skipped her early classes and her hands were sewed to the steering wheel. the windows were down as was only proper for a morning when a knitted sweater was all that was needed to evoke the feeling of being nestled n sunday morning in a field of comforters and quilts.

the plaid-clothed man walking the sidewalk waved to the aging red pickup that moseyed along the two lane road with the enthusiasm that can only be shared by two men full of fried eggs and gossip about the local football players. a middle school girl wrapped her arm around the shoulders of her slightly shorter love interest as they both beamed with the radiance of the freedom of walking to school like miniature adults.

she parked in the gravel pull-off adjacent to the highest grassy knoll of town and hummed as she screeched open her door. the hills loomed in the distance of the morning's pseudo fog like a scene from wuthering heights. as she laid her leather boots onto the dew glossed blades of grass, she could feel her roots. she couldn't deny their pull that tangled and twisted her. they held her steady and she couldn't deny her secret suicidal nature a single moment longer. she loved this town.

we shared a tent in which i could not sleep at all...

i found this and given the indescribable emotions plaguing my brain lately, i suppose it carries more meaning. it reminded me why i love dance...even the flaws...

after a recital:

the curtains close and from behind them
you hear the pitter-pattering feet
of the last of the crowd dispersing.
the hanging velvet brushes your fingertips
as you glide in between tutus and skirts,
a dance in itself.
off stage, you are encompassed in a swirling mass of familiar faces-
all reflecting your feeling of accomplishment.
the metallic sound of taps hitting the floor
startles you out of the world of flying bobby pins
and into the world of reality.
the once glorious get-up that you reveled in moments ago
becomes a straight jacket confining your soul.
you see everything in a different eye
now that you have left an environment
of blinding lights and blaring music.
you are once again just a name, just a number.
you slip off your armbands of oppression
and retrieve your mirror out of a sea of pink and tan in one fluid motion.
red lipstick and hooker blush disintegrate
beneath your tissue draped fingertips.
your hands now cradle your pseudo-self
and gazing into the mirror you recognize yourself
for the first time in days
and in a way, you are reborn.

i sincerely saw your skin for the very first time...

i found this in a pile of papers. funny how some people are just good inspiration-or bad inspiration. i suppose it depends on whatever fortune your cookie gives you that day.

i need plastic surgery:

today isn't one of those days
that i dare to don
flustered cheeks and salty lashes.
such was never proper attire for goodbyes.

it it said halos resonate
from the digits of my countrymen,
but circles must be changed,
exchanged for parallel lines.
heartbeats have slurred
and the trembling of my thighs
is no longer convincing enough for you.

if i'd told you i loved you
would your shoes have shown brighter?
i doubt the truth
and lay here a liar
and it doesn't matter
to you, or me, or you.

seconds can't be divided for further analysis
and memories can't be formed with clay.
and i can't soon forget you,
but with fingers crossed i do.

hope you need my love, babe. just like i need you...

i was cleaning today and found this and since i haven't written a post in a hell of a long time...i found this fitting. and also devastatingly odd that a poem written about a half a year ago can still apply to the confusion. the style is inspired by john ashbery.
chemistry:

you always keep me waiting.
you ignore my every smile,
which is probably intentional.
you licked my lollipop once.
i am longing to be at the marina.
at least, no one drowns there.
i was assaulted by a mouse once
with an automatic stun gun. fought
back like a tree without branches.
wait, here stumbles another. he'll oil the windmill
to keep it spinning. well, it does. in pain.
in love, which is so much alike.

so we kiss our tulips in these such moments.
i believe i am more informed than my phys. ed. teacher.
bella sat on my lap, growing so fast. i said
pluck the petals, red or yellow. now
such colors seem mellow. i've realized i miss that fellow
from the cafe who gave me his number.
perhaps he moved to boston. i enjoy dancing
the spanish allegro, am pale, and use too much hairspray.
carole lombard is my all-time favorite actress.

and what do you say? do you, too, scream cryptics
with your tongue dyed ruby, pleading
for some cake and cookies, full
of sugar and spice? here they have bubbles.
look, one is floating over the rose.
they keep my secret. "oakland."

and all this time i silenced my heartbeat,
someone was obviously intrigued by me.
the boy tired and apparently married
a girl with blonde hair. now i have no hope,
no future for white picket fences and pta meetings.
i reluctantly surrendered too quickly
or much too late. chemistry books were shared.
i prayed i had found my demise.
too bad you wouldn't hold my hand.

i want to know what i don't know... i don't know what i want to know...

i have come to a conclusion. and i would like to have it written down so that i can look back and be proud that i know so much about myself.

i am going to end up with an ethnically intriguing person.

why this conclusion you ask?
white men break my heart before i ever let them have it. okay. so maybe not, maybe just one or two in particular... because i would suffer a million edgar allen poe's to have a shawn harris or bob dylan type.

but anyway. i was at the hospital tonight and the security guard man that my mom knows is named mohammad. he's great and adorable. so what if i only came in contact with him for a few moments. those are the people who always touch me the most anyway. he was so sweet. and i loved his accent. i would have stayed all night and talked to him. at one point he was like "are you going to stay with me?" and i was like ahhh are you reading my mind? who knows? but i was just like " sure. i'd stay and help." and then he stopped to talk to me and mom again. and i love him.

anyway. and mexicans and i have a connection. undeniable. what's a girl to do???

unrelated: i am also the greatest undescovered actress. someone out there knows what i'm talking about. or i'm a really good liar. i'm not sure which. i think they are the same thing regardless... someone once told me it was scary how well i could lie....i was insulted yet flattered. i have discovered there is no insult to be found in that statement.

and if you think she bad, then her friends are way badder....

okay...so if you are here on my page....please do me a really big favor and let me know what you think of my poetry. take a little time and tell me your honest opinion-what do you not like, what do you like, why? i would appreciate it more than you know.


connecticut is burning:

she first opened the book in the dawn of summer.
the sweaty sudanese man sold it to her.
that summer the theater opened on prime street.
that summer she lost her blue high-heel, watched
it tumble down the sidewalk drain along with the tears
of a modern-day cupid.
that summer she worked at the grocer's, scanning
the crowds for someone under the geriatric age spectrum.
(to no avail)
that summer she picked up spanish from her amigo
at the library desk.
that summer the hobo under the bridge left,
pursued by blue lights.
that summer the water was contaminated with vengeance.
she dog-eared the pages and inhaled the stench
of sweat left by his greasy sudanese palms.

if it's not forever, if it's just tonight, it's still the greatest...

After much unsureness and eraser marks in my cranium i've finally found a closing more suitable for this poem. It was loved in the original state- but i was never pleased with the ending (the first edition of this poem is posted somewhere in this blog). so after a bit of poetic plastic surgery it is now presentable (in my eyes at least). and some liked the original better, i guess you can compare for yourself. but as a poet (i think i can call myself that for a fleeting moment) i think you must except nothing is ever perfect. so this is my poem that has seemingly perfect tits but a lopsided left nipple. (perhaps i should have deleted that last sentence...)
Life is in fact balloons and butterflies:

My prince came roaring through
totting balloons and butterflies
in a pastel pink '87 Volvo,
blaring his emo love tunes while headbanging,
losing control and crashing
into my chest.

Like the too tight hairband on my wrist,
he was turning me a deep shade of purple.

I would awake to blinking red lights
emanating from a digital face
much reminding me of those brown eyelashes
that would blink out Morse codes
in response to my restlessly tapping digits.

Our messages were composed
of Nat King Cole slang
and disgustingly sentimental pet names.

We would dance in the style of Fred and Ginger
to scratched records
and dusty yardsale mixed tapes,
stepping on one another's toes
without pardons or concessions.
I treasured the adolescent August
and Spring was months away.

lord you don't know how you're making me feel...

it has been a very long time since i've written a piece about someone. and the two pieces i did write were about the same person. but this subject has needed a poem for a while and since this one doesn't suffice for me, there will probably more. but i don't know if any poem could be more true. perhaps he could read it and realize it was about him and make things easier by claiming where he stands. if you know me closely you know who this is about.i was told this was one of my strongest pieces to date (which i disagree with). i enjoyed the love given to it. and it meant a lot when a certain lovely man who doesn't say much about poetry brought up the constellation line a good 10 minutes later after hearing it...not knowing it was mine. evidently, screwed up loves or lack thereof provide great material. this poem doesn't deserve this much of an introduction...

ursa major:

i can barely whisper about the hue
of your skin, eyes, hair.
i am too hesitant and overwhelmed

with confusion. i sometimes think
your eyes were only constellations
that i could never quite find

or name. and at others i'm sure
each strand of your hair was a memory
that might be lost at any moment

down the bathroom sink. then again,
your skin was the dusty cover
of a book which hadn't been touched

in years. i could never read well though,
or nimble my fingers enough to please
that rusted latch. and i know

those vocal chords were serenading
like the robin outside my glass pane,
but i'm not so sure anymore.

it was good to keep me guessing, cause you know i hate attention. but can you get down to it?...

i have this notion that i should somehow end up settled in cape cod, it now seeps into my writing. and was on the news tonight. and vonnegut clearly pulls much inspiration from the place. and it finds itself in my music. it has invaded my life and i must invade it one day with my presence.


smooth sailing in cape cod:

this mexican man i met on the street
followed me home. and i let him.

i needed some warmth and color.
i was underexposed and it showed.

all the blue-green eyes paraded behind
the barred apartment windows, rusted over.

they were the natives of my antique cape cod,
the people were just as weathered.

born in the generation of french cinematics;
no one understood my language.

nothing more than a tourist attraction with my velvet vest.
the mexican was my admission.

we just saw it from a different point of view, tangled up in blue...

who ever would have thought this elderly town could provide something other than hellish regrets?


caffeine addicts and broken glasses:

you wrote like an outcast from the beat generation and my, how i enjoyed you, honey.
every vulgar quotation muttered as you sipped and gulped your orange crush.
it was more than a crush, wasn't it babe, but not quite the monotonous idea of love.
those musty alleyways crammed us together and i remember suffocating on bluebirds and
window curtains.
the town was decaying, i was a white flood, and you were the revolution.
the traffic sign stalking our door said "stop", but we never obeyed.
"what can you expect from two bad seeds looking for soil?"
i was light and cascaded with the changing winds, but you were rooted
and your literature was too heavy for wings. it wasn't love; i was alive with glory.
the neon sign proclaimed "we closed" and the greyhound door was open...