granny

walking out

i wash the white
and black out the red
its all i keep contained within
that keeps my visions swerving
running into you again...
oops i am sorry,
my mouth didn''t mean to say those things
its just that my stomach sometimes pushes out tired of boiling,
burning acidic pains
and i can't help but to look at you sideways.
i'd leave if i could have the keys
or take the dog on my leash...
i don't mind walking,
really.
i could find a place under the shade
where it wouldn't look to funny if i sat down and prayed
with my hat, blocking the sun and keeping the sand
from kicking me in the face.
i have always got dirt in my mouth it seems
spouting out twisted little mind *** themes
and i wonder if we are living this just like it is my dream,
but no we aren't i see at the end of another
sleepy haze,
mom is still alive, the is still ...

over and over

there is a man in the cell
his structure compares to movie role models for kids that want to be
bad asses
like little timmy who wants to ride a big bike and have tiffany tattoed
across his chest
right now he is ten and still playing with he-man and other force-fed
superheroes
i wonder if he still wets his bed.
well the man in the cell doesn't.
he strokes his phone cord and thinks of longer
longer days and probably longer nights
just like these
lonely and unafraid...
at least if you ask him.
he waits and waits and
wastes 50 cents on the phone call again
to his girlfriend because he couldn't stop needing to hear
the sound of her voice ringing his ears.
everybody is a victim sometimes i guess.
and baby please the time is growing still
and i can't hear you thru the interruptions...
i said mama doesn't like you and
she is cutting...

my mother

my mother used to paint

cutouts, clippings,
computer print outs
scattered all over the living room table and couch

she'd stare for hours after smoking a bowl
deciding which picture to use for inspiration
to self teach her hand to move like
monet, picasso or van gogh

she made herself an artist
infusing styles of the masters
in with her own
but never realized the beauty of her work

my mother used to paint.

for u

today

i fall inside
the warmth of your gaze.
i watch as your fears
melt into mine
and i can no longer tell
who is (more) afraid.

i call you out
to show you places
where we need to
bridge the gap
before we both fall in.

i close you in,
boxed,
until i think maybe
you might understand
we both have feelings.

tomorrow

i am hoping that
you'll be here,
cradling the outline
of my curves

holding me tightly
through the night
until we both
wake up again.

i can even say
i like sleeping now
because i like the way
you feel pressed snug against my skin.

whenever

you can't seem to figure
what is going on
or don't think i am
strong enough to bring along

remember i am.
i am ready and willing
and waiting
for you to take that ch...

the first groping

"nature is opposite of the soul" - emerson

i am mutating into truth
shuddering
thinking of how to hide myself
in the world of my own workings

will i be able to pass off this
chaotic sickness
and its hard, cold realness
or will they catch on

finding me in the struggle
of yet another welfare love
that can't figure out
if its my feet or his, he should be picking up.

and i don't know
anymore than
the mind of the vacuum
that sucked up all the

good.

in the yellow

there are pieces of shadows
pasted against the pastels,
i am yellow and
overhang the rope for myself.

my head is still muttering
silly things
like "die ... now,"
and i regret being so nice -

letting go of suicide
when it was my time to
wear the evil grin
and do myself in.

this is my nightmare

we have subtle lenses
attached to complex visions.

they call it creativity.

i call me falling off
the deep-end

not drowning
or swimming in

but falling.

guess its a perception thing.

i think at least if i were only drowning
i'd only have five more minutes of
living like this.

but falling,
i am still breathing
and i can be falling forever.

at least that's how it seems.
my mind made up
always different than
the norm or
the rest of the breathing world.

and i don't care if they do.
leave it to them.
i can't worry about
pleasing everybody.

i have too many damn ledges
to avoid catching,
to avoid becoming

just another
anybody
like the rest
of you sheep
in society.

my eyes will stay
wide awake.

*** you for loving me
and wanting me

living amongst the noise

the guy in lot 5 likes to give women hickies
then paint their portraits in the sand.
he gives them texture,
because everyone in Venice must have worn grooves,
even potholes, in their character.

down the way the waitress who brings beer,
wears bells around her waist
and already knows our order
before stopping by to say hi.

we drink the sunset away before going
to bounce around the skate park
for a picture or three.

take a ride on the swings
up, down
ugh, too dizzy today.
the erdinger in my stomach
grins at me.

we kiss with our feet in the sand,
the water rushing up -
you preparing to run,
me preparing for the cold.

the rest of the night is soft
stereo noise
hummed against the moaning
and our already rickety bed so close to busting
takes another pounding
with me between him and it.

just anything

monday has tentacle arms
and swallows deep.
i take another smoke break
even though i quit four years and 3 months ago.
you turn up the volume on the microphone
in hopes to kill some of the dead noise
with your voice.

i keep myself twiddling my thumbs,
shaking my feet,
bouncing my knees...
anything

just anything.

tomorrow will find me another bedside,
another exhaustion pipe and
green.
i can bring the Cathedral
to our dreams
if only you will pray for me.

and there you go
avoiding my fields of stains and
broken minds stuck in
repeat silences
that have you so wound up around pointless

that you brought a gun-
and i wonder if this is my misery
or is it yours?
stop stiffening the breeze and speak -
say anything

just anything
(so i can get to sleep).

no answer

i used to smile against the weather,
now i am just too run over.
all the shadows take horizons
and my goals disappear inside them.
i could collect call from the west coast
all the way to new hampshire,
but what good would the ringing do
for either one of us.
we both already know
you aren't picking up the phone.