shot in the dark

He was a great balloon maker
the balloons were never known for speed
there's no way you'll get sweet

you asked me to waste some time
come out to see the sun
you're all we've got

but i said i think there's more of them like us
and he said "you might be right..
we'll find them in time somewhere"

He was a great balloon maker
then they outlawed all balloons
he packed up and put his things away.



Read from start to end and again the fearlessness of thoughts in print

strips the chord of a sensible word and what's worse

she left her mark, indelible the nature of a scripted verse

keeps my eyes set on the page, and it says

frankly dear I'm forced to give it up

tried my hand and now I've had enough

even though we have to say goodbye

keep me in mind

blamed in advance for the past with no bearing on a present tense

all that's left are claims that she made when she said

oh dear someday we'll learn to be better fit to pursue one another

but 'til then we'll call it the end as she adds

frankly dear the drifters had it right

stayed the afternoon and left at night

even though we have to say goodbye

keep me in mind



Maybe come with me to the coast
And watch the way the rain comes down
Out of the shadows she's more passionate
We'll watch her role roll in from the south

She'll wrap her sheets 'round us
Forget the sun

Moving from sea to land dancing
Swinging with the boats out there
She steps on toes if she wants to
But never because of lack of care

..It's all in the mask, you see



Don't cry, I'll bring this home to you
If I can make this night light enough to move

Cargo (tugboat) ships move sluggishly by
Tracking on the horizon line
There's a luster from the city lights
On the waves that kiss our feet
And we're thinking of going in
The times getting thin
Out there, are you still alive?
I stay up hours worried about detox-strangling
But anyway, this is a city for not sleeping
And the clocks are set by feel
At those moments from where I sit
None of it seems real



Toss, turn, and flip
until the ground becomes the overhead
but instead of sunken battleships
I find emptiness instead.

And you'll say I can't save me unless you let me
(go)
but my dreams have been lonely
lately.

cycles

once

a single cell

found that it was full of light

and for the first time there was seeing

when

i was a bird

i could see where the stars had turned

and i set out on my journey

high

in the head of a mountain goat

i could see across a valley

under the shining trees something moving

deep

in the green sea

I saw two sides of the water

and I swam between them

..i look at you

in the first light of the morning

for as long as i can
but secretly,
peeking from behind curtains of hair
while i'm spoiling.

original light broke apart,

the Gnostics say,

when time began,

singular radiance

fractioned into form

-- an easy theory

to believe,

especially in early summer-

when that first performance

seems repeated daily.

though wouldn't it mean

each fracturing took us

that much further

from heaven?

not in this town.

not in midsummer winter: hazy harbor

and cloudbank, white houses'

endlessly broken planes,

a long argument

of lilac shadows and whites

as blue as noon:

phrasebooks of day,

articulated most of all

in these roses,

which mount, rise, fall, and swell

in dynasties of bloom,

their easy idiom

a soundless compaction

of lip on lip. their work,

these thick flowerheads?

built to contain

sunlight, they interrupt

that movement just enough

to transfix in air, at eye level,

now: held still, and shattering,

which is the way with light:

the more you break it

the nearer it comes to whole.



these days,
lately:
..only flesh still

welcoming to flesh.

feels like hurtling into vast darkness,

the sky itself whistling of space

the black matter between stars

the red shift as the light dies,

warmth a temporary aberration,

entropy as a season.






i'm sliding open windows and slipping out, across apocalyptic ground
dreams reaching out, unfurling, to wrap me in shadowy waters
washed in a copper tinged mouth is the hint of his bodytalk
silence stretches wide and seeds awareness-
two beings. more kindred than originally thought
not legible
but the same strange animal
I don the shape of a woman,
a coquette with confidence like hot and cold
yet I am bound by deeply embedded golden truths
of yearning, season, and flesh...
bruised from the coarse affection sweettalk, attempts to grind it in
make it stick
although the existence of such, the unspoken
is already unknowingly powerful enough to
drown even the riptides of
time.-
(streaming by in the festively lit night,
seeping into words that brush on addiction and sedation
faraway and familiar both:
nostalgic laughter,
light airbrush touches
sitting on old news and sewing new tunes,
yuletide wrestling matches)








clumsy stumble down the ravine, to your hotelbed
where we meet,
you say- with no secrets to tell

and you are laid out
across the dance floor,
probing your doubt,
i go deep into you in search of more
your resistance sings a lot like mine

we have our lives away from the meeting point
where all things seem placed carefully like collectibles
splashed with vague memories..
the space between, when closing, is
precious yet forgettable,
you can't discern- to the other- what is overlooked and what is held close
tight to the chest like the ghost of someone else,
filling holes

(like packed rooms filled with our reflections in countless mirrored eyes
only there is a blankness, something bottomless and unrecognizable
unremembered reasons that we rationalize away the following days
keeping ourselves safe.
and i can see what boils deeper, beneath the surface tension)

but i hope somewhere hidden beneath the seams
ragged as they may be, like 70s hand-me-down cloth
you know
i continue/d to want you always,
even long spread thin distance pulls the heartstrings
through this fog of years we have sped through;
we dream of times that don't exist in our days,
and we each go into every night to come undone.



merry christmas
(sleep of reason)
once again.

sheets

3 day bus trip cross country. learning the hard way.
Struggle is the food from which change is made.

Anything in life that is worth having will cause some inconvenience before you get it.


the mountains and evergreens are soothing
but it still stings
if pain is weakness leaving the body,
and blue sky is my weakness,
then I'm purging.
eerie:
we pass tanks and army trucks on the country roads,
the heads of camo clad men peep from the tops of green clothed tops
ready for action
all systems go...going where?
it's snowing/the sky is pure white,
the world is opening up, on the verge of swallowing me whole.
the roads are slippery, throwing old moisture,
like my skin
dare i say it would have been safer to fly?
but he was right
the drive was breathtaking: like a dreamworld
akin to the ethereal train ride through the Alps
yes, I think I needed it, again...
solitude. soul in flight& fleeing something unnameable
with powdered sugarcapped giants-
the crest of God's breast
behind mere window panes,
wrapped in feathered green pines
that have surely been holding their breath for all time,
just so that we may oxygen thrive and evolve.
he would say they are invisible...
thoughtless and absorbent
soaking up excess ego driven ponderings.
in order to truly see them for what they are
to completely revel in their beauty
we must go invisible too.
there are cabins smoking in the belly of the woods/
I'm at a loss.
and I can still smell it on my skin, my clothes,
the scent of surrender.
ghost fog shrouds the birds flying east
blanketing the hilltops
penetrating the earth,
my heart opens its eyes
crusty with smeared mascara and sleep.
I want to be invisible.
wrapped tightly under an invisibility cloak,
listening to tv news coverage about pirates.
They still exist?
I'm lingering on steam rising from potholes,
barefoot in a corset, a stranger on these streets
wandering for hours
finding release in the unfamiliar territory that's leering at me-
I can sense it even hiding beneath
those damn Winnie sheets.

falling into overcast oblivion.
there are no trees whatsoever wherever we are now,
none,
just wide open plains
(or maybe they've just gone invisible,
and I'm too lost in memories to find them)
gray depths,
i am faceless. the silence speaks to me here.

People from my bus journey:
*Towering man with grey beard and kind eyes in the restaurant of the Amarillo bus station: we talked politics over tea, his huge one filled with nondairy creamer, mine small and bland. We agreed that America is headed for a revolution- common man v.s. the bureaucrat. He said he was getting too old to stand the cold.
*Bus driver that tried his hardest job to do his job better than average, took pride in driving us to Denver...kept telling us repeatedly he wanted those hours to be the best of our journey, and would do whatever it took to make it pleasant and enjoyable. We were behind schedule, which wasn't his fault, but the driver before him... so he hurried, took short rest stops, and was apologetic because of it- when he got off and switched drivers, he kept insisting he tried his best, was sorry for whoever missed their connection. Only a couple of people thanked him...no one seemed to give a damn that he was giving it his all, and wanted to stick out from all the others in the sea of drivers. I felt a little sad, thinking of him going home feeling unfulfilled. I regret not hugging him.
*Crazy old foreign man with no luggage but a plastic bag of alcohol- which no one was aware of until he started stumbling around, reeking of liquor, then pissed and shit himself, his seat, and the entirety of the bus bathroom. The lady bus driver with the long braid down her back cussed at him and quickly "removed" him from "her" bus- I was relieved, he had been hacking for hours in a disgustingly wet manner and was almost right across the aisle from me. I was still a little weirded out, being so near the soiled seat...
but she proved herself a great driver, getting us through the snow ridden, just re-opened streets (barely missed the snowstorm). I admit, at first I doubted her ability,
how sexist of me-
but it's not my fault our first woman driver seemed to think it was appropriate to brake every 3 seconds.
*Semi-friend found in the "thug" who looked the part but didn't act it- baggy black everything, shaved head, but with a kung fu panda blanket wrapped around his neck and shoulders. We watched HotRod together on his mini dvd player- ridiculous movie but it still made me laugh, maybe I needed that.
*Little adorable black girl with the head full of rainbow barrettes wanted some of my bread...I wanted to give her some, but was afraid her mom would be overly cautious...don't take candy from strangers and all that jazz (when I was younger I had a shirt that read: "Strangers have the best candy." What a slut.)
*Bald man in grey sweatshirt, white denim jacket, and matching (kind of) khaki-white jeans- he couldn't bear to leave his Xbox for his thanksgiving trip home, so there it was- boxed up and ready to board next to him. His style and Burt Reynolds mustache made me smile and mean it; he read my mind "Reminds me of a bad movie. With the way I'm dressed, you'd have thought I stepped off the cover of a corny old 80s film." I laughed but didn't mention I completely agreed: (he talked and talked and talked, cracking what i wouldn't quite call jokes) I did almost slip up and say, however, that it was a good thing he was unwilling to pay 2 dollars for the Pepsi he wanted so badly- after all, why pay such a high price to damage your teeth, when I could punch you in the mouth for free?

No, I'm not violent. Just ornery, sometimes.
*On the bus to Dallas- my fellow passenger was a thin haired, poncho clad guy with dark facial stubble and a woodsy smell. We talked about transcendentalism; he said he thinks the worst kind of slavery is the kind we put on ourselves, in everyday life. As his icebreaker, he asked me if I had been writing vertically; and he had never seen a cotton field before. I thought all elementary schools in the South did that for a field trip- visited a cotton farm? Well, I guess St Louis isn't considered South, anyway..

It's the times when I feel most lonely that my love for myself grows in strength the most. Regardless of the creepy things I learned from the security guard in Denver during my 4.5 hour layover, ("If you saw the types and amounts of weapons I've confiscated in a days worth time, you wouldn't ever take a bus again.") I don't regret my choice to ride Greyhound....it was both a self inflicted reward and punishment. Walking alone in downtown Denver- 7 blocks to the Cheesecake Factory to eat a delicious meal and drink green tea by myself on a Friday night- was exactly what I needed after my Seattle mishap. I watched the well dressed couples and groups stroll the holiday-lit streets, happy and rosy cheeked; I breathed in the brisk air, free of makeup and aware of the slight yearning and sadness that washed over me- but I didn't feel empty, not nearly. I was ok with myself, happy with the world...and that was plenty satisfying for me.

[haiku]
Deceitful quiet.
Drunkard ranting, flying cool
Brown mopheaded brute.

[to do list]
channel negative energy into warmth for others,
the world.
new living arrangements asap
get my sheet together (and a new comforter to complete my fantastic chocolate brown sheets)
get rid of unnecessary stuff, ie CLOTHES=
i want to live more minimalistically.
pursue BALANCE
don't eat a whole box of german sugar cookies when upset/stressed
ever. again.

maybe more meditation.

**Dante says that God is not merely a blinding vision of glorious light,
but that He is, most of all,
l'amor che move il sole el' altre stelle
the love that moves the sun and the other stars.

i'm (very slowly) trying to learn to quiet my mind.
(the things that are hardest are the best kind)
**from the Bhagavad Vita. the most ancient text of yoga:
"Oh Krishna, the mind is restless, turbulent, strong, and unyielding...
as difficult to subdue as the wind."

You are what you think. Your emotions are the slaves to your thoughts,
and you are the slave to your emotions.

Of course, knowing these things and heeding them are two totally different things.
My thoughts are swaying like kelp in the black ocean current of night.
Especially after considering one of my worst fears could be an actual truth.
(C'mon optimistic gene, don't fail me now.)

the honey bees are dying

a street sweeper at this time of night only makes the bleeding skies more eerie.
reflection hazy.
worn out is as lonely does,
i feel like i could close my eyes for decades,
and when i lift my eyelids i'll have missed nothing.
nothing but a little smudged mascara and a 5 am phone call,
echoing from an empty car
while freshly changed sheets turn over in their sleep.
spring will come as usual, only this time my grin will be toothless
like a jack o lantern,
only less square. still a little empty and rotting
i am fluffy like pumpkin pie filling,
you roll it around on your tongue and murmur "hmm. interesting.."
only it's not quite your style,
so a few bites into it you quit and abandon your sweettooth,
fondling the crust edges aimlessly,
the taste of familiarity.

i keep catching myself hiding in the strangest places,
like a creepy subconscious game of sardines.
if only i could pack all the masks into a trunk and swallow the key,
and then when my plane goes down
you can bite into the fruit of my ash-tree
and savor the metallic taste of finally. finally free?
once there is no more skin to disguise.

the static snowstorm of dreams is a small solace
when you're too indecisive to choose a winter coat.
the warm, oozing embrace of a comfort laden bed brings less ease
when you wake up in cold sweats, chasing breaths and ghosts
that haunt visions of lands that you can't recall
as real at all, anymore.

i don't think i'll have turkey this year. i would feel too guilty.
for once in my life i thought from their point of view
the kind of creature who looks up into the heavens when it rains,
astounded by the miracle, so flabbergasted by the sensation
and caught in the moment,
that they forget to close their mouths-wide open in amazement-
and drown themselves.
i feel like we're kindred spirits, you see...
scatterbrained and too curious for our own good
and when i look up, turn my gaze skywards..
whether out of desire (to be washed clean and pure),
fascination,
optimism,
reverence,
etc
i just lose myself in the madness and end up choking
on the beauty of it all.
plus,
i'm sure i would taste just as delicious if i were full of cornbread
instead of organs (or lack thereof).

summer rain or whale semen?
it's all the same when you can't read the code anyway,
when the emblems could stand for something
less meaningful and more laughable
the pretty intangible symbolism suddenly becomes
the butt of your own joke above your butt
(slightly to the left.)

maybe i just need to get the celery out of my ass.

Halloween

Of course, with my luck, I'm sick on Halloween.

As for my posting entries for every day of my favorite month, I got a little behind...this tends to happen when I put stipulations on myself, as if I'm rebelling against my own guidelines without even realizing it. One reason I got behind is because I was caught up in finishing my list. You can find it here at another blog I am starting, specifically just to keep track of my progress. The countdown starts today and ends July 29, 2011. Therefore, this entry will have to suffice for making up for the last week of this glorious month.

The week of: Day 25-Day 31
happy hauntings



I remember:
Splintered hands from jumping fences (waves swell)
scrambling up:seeking the sweet chime
doorframes like ropes
die trying
( to ring that invisible bell)
have you ever?
stumbled upon a discarded, forgotten treasure in the lost and found?
i have.
faced down a time when you asked yourself:
is it time to stop climbing, now?
never.
fireflies never stop lighting up the night,
although we can only see them in the summer
ladybugs never stop their flight,
although they pause to land somewhere from time to time.
like now, my feet planted happily at such a great height
generously jingling rhythms float from...
the clocktower. (itself now frozen in mock time)
inverted---> yes, the consummate contradiction

and when the apocalypse is upon us,
just pretend the ceiling is the ground
i'll be waiting in this secret place,
our world upside down.




XXXVI. "Continuity"

There is in certain ancient things a trace
Of some dim essence - more than form or weight;
A tenuous aether, indeterminate,
Yet linked with all the laws of time and space.
A faint, veiled sign of continuities
That outward eyes can never quite descry;
Of locked dimensions harbouring years gone by,
And out of reach except for hidden keys.

It moves me most when slanting sunbeams glow
On old farm buildings set against a hill,
And paint with life the shapes which linger still
From centuries less a dream than this we know.
In that strange light I feel I am not far
From the fixed mass whose sides the ages are.





tonight the fires will burn for the northwest.

humpty dumpty was pushed

Day 21, 22, 23, and 24
Damage control for weary souls



When dreams drain you (your love, mother's life, and air stolen)
i will be there to refill.
Little rich splashes of epic
chocolately wines
to show you there is substance
within a turtle's shell
(survivor trivia)
Organs of pumpkin,
sticky on guitar strings,
just cut cut cut cut cut cut cut it out:
instant fix, karmic chuckle.
if i am the symphony than you are the beats,
the swirling melodies,
the unparalleled beauty of improv that makes me
my architect of sound.
A connoisseur of words, he said
the jazz of language.
begrudgingly acknowledged blessings
manifest a knowing glow-
pondering the desire to be your immortality,
better-than-codine
to my “just messenger:”
i'll be counting the hours until Christmas morning
present upon gift unwrapped as i sink deeper
into my abyss(es) of choice
yes,
we'll bake Halloween cookies on Christmas,
shaped like random rectangles
of post apocalyptic love
i hear tennies pounding asphalt-
but no figures emerge in the
midnight nearly spent hour streetlights
traditional medicinal hymnal,
the fires are burning once more:
pride is bonfire scars, matching.
Porcelain dolls under the bed beckon like
the likelihood that the black and white
candies are merely trickery,
like popcorn ceiling spontaneity:
cloud picture constellations, flawlessly.
I ache I ache I ache I ache I ache I ache I ache
with it.
Longing for him.
Pregnant REM
I sneak away from the corners that hold sleeping beings
to a remote room that holds dark things-
of the sweetest, smoky nature,
however
see me- struggling to push the window open, it's calling to me
this night- one to find cars in flames alongside the freeway
and although it was another witness that made bare (this),
i can still feel it
from eons away
i lock myself within this oddity-sanctuary,
a familiarity that is haunting
(like the trees
slowmotion swingdancing,
eaves rustling and putting rust-singe
in my singing bones)
tonight, perfect is:
utterly alone
accompanied only by the ghost of an oversized trampoline
with tears in its springs,
remembering rainbow crystal mesh happenings
balls tossed through the gaps
from overconfidence,
misjudgment that left
a young girl hanging from one foot,
wailing in despair
(head mere inches from the grass.)
pleasure derived in my own insanity
(pray it's not temporary)
hush hush little baby-
everything is just fine.
Lipbiting secrets in the guestroom
elude to revisitations
of another time-
(will force you to-)
remember to close the closet door
each night.
Bloody Mary Bloody Mary Bloody Mar-
bawk.bawk.bawk.
I recall moments with measured seconds,
like 3 consecutive spins in the dark,
waiting for the guillotine to fall,
who will be the unlucky one to prove
unbelievers wrong?
red flash reflection.
white wooden bars hiss,
holding their poise as domestic ultraviolence
rubs against them coyly, begging,
naturally breathing away erosions of time-
sucking the dirt smear stains into itself,
opulent eyes
twinkling.
Ears feeding- every nuance, the zombies of foilage
scattering,
cloudy distance dog barking
I pick up each echo of fragment of pavement
that is shocked and shifted,
bruised in the process,
“time” drifting.
Tonight the earth is making love to itself.
The kind of love you could call fucking.
I am mesmerized, paralyzed-
both more alive than ever before and slowly dying
as i try my hardest to swallow every drop,
thick and meaty,
of the blackest plum sensuality.
The windchimes and train moans
weave themselves into the obscure October winds,
bringing with them a night for sirens
awakening tender senses,
rousing my soul in sleep.
I'm lounging in the pink butterscotch flowered prison
of a baby bed,
feet melting into the wet towels of experience
...somewhere in another century.
The leaves are laughing deliriously,
whispering in fever as they flee,
scurry,
faces hidden inside of themselves (and their coats of howling mystery)
the drapes sigh, shift their weight,
wishing to be the trunks of the shapeshifting trees,
the arms of madness
reaching [neverending] for repletion.
And with this night
(for the first time that any shade of mind could recognize)
comes the shriekings of a new age,
dawn breaks over me,
wracking waves of recognition.
Feelings intimately fresh-faced (blood stained chaste virgin)
and yet strangely and eerily familiar
like suffocation dreams and horse blankets,
closet shoe racks and black sequined disco dresses.
Taillights burn like coals
and the lights blemishing the yellow walls flicker
(i haven't believed in irony, lately)
momentary shadowboxing,
as if an invisible stopwatch programmed to pre-set
specific seconds
is reminding me to return to my seat-
the show is about to begin.
This is a land
where you try and fit all of yourself under one blanket-
then the expectation of awakening
to shivering
is replaced by the (full two armed- no half bullshit)
deep embrace of your perfect comforter,
the otherworldly comfort only a cold front can bring=
living
in the constant delight of the song ending right upon
reaching your destination.
I am Jack's bathroom stall misbehavior.
Time- like minuscule shards of glass found in an elbow
that's balancing on a busied arm
(detoxing.)
no one understands when I say I don't believe in Neosporin.

synergy

Day 19
Burgeoning




you are my green
naturally, inherently vibrant
lush, fresh, deeply serene
and perceived, by my eyes, better than all other colors
seen
1000 guitars smashed across the surface,
when the disfigured face of the world rears its head
you see, instead,
pretty paint that softly coats the surface,
covering the ugliness, now forgotten
seeping into brambly, thorned edges
until only fleecy beauty remains
awakening to a vanilla cream spice dessert tea kiss
a delicacy that brings warmth into the crevices
like an old friend's forgiveness.






Day 20
Protraction





she sends out armies of syllables
recalling weakness and darker times
like a winter cloud,
poignantly beautiful and diplomatic
she doesn't see her own strength
her hair, at night, caught
in shadow like so many threads (memories of fraying)
running through a waterfall,
weaves the frivolous air until,
at daybreak, above a deadfall
of flies' wings clustered
in the corner of a room,
you push it
away from your eyes.
and then like a
fresh breath exchange on a december morning,
you rise.
steam like pain, evaporating-
which is blending with oxygen,
melding but never forgetting
there is always an imprinted memory-
the existence of moisture
a sweat beaded brow,
submission to a mission
you thought you had a say so in,
but didn't.
the artistry
you once saw in the symmetry,
beats a hasty retreat,
leaving you
with a stigma you can't give back.
but the voice from within your chest
resonates, holds no lack
of cultivation
vibrates forward tenaciously
and binds sensation
into the waves
of juncture.





flashes of green light strike the lightning rod
and it receives them eagerly,
shuddering under the vigor
of nature's nerve impulses,
electric, somehow both possessing
the sheer, ephemeral beauty of fleeting
and the penetration of longevity.

leave your windows open to let the night in

Day 15
Dip into Dreams
Remembering to forget, forgetting to remember

I remember so many nights
desire to spin, hands clasped
before vertigo- then fulfillment upon falling to the grass,
dizzy and spent
only october and I'm already thinking tree of lights





supposedly when you dream you're falling-
when you can literally feel the pull of gravity,
the encompassing release, the drop of your stomach-
your soul temporarily leaves your body in the midst of sleep
astro-projection, of sorts
perhaps that's why at certain times in my life more than others,
I dream constantly of falling
because my soul aches, fiercely, for liberation.
dreams.
memories that look a lot like me
taped up around a hollowed out creation
and inside, a lightbox of colors, reflectors, broken glass
beautifully whole in its scatterbrained debris
swirling, ethereal/a little delusional
rainbow.spinning.twisting.
christmas lights in the touchable, audible distance (tipsy squeals)
that's the ticket. a carnival mood
take me there, i'll light up the night for you
i want you marinate in them with me
those strange, welcoming city colors, bits of childhood nostalgia
all twisted and crispy toasted brown
something deep fried dirty to perfection
with sprinklings of sweet, white purity
like a funnel cake.
more savory when fleeting
like sexy snowcone abandonment
something deliciously saccharine & refreshing
that longs for freedom
sweet enough to not be selfish,
it allows itself, for a few minutes, to be eaten
then it jumps from between what seemed a safe grip
to land among the dirt of the earth
where, although nothing like its surroundings
it finds happiness.
(a splash of succulent among the drab monotones)

Day 16
Know your Onion

It is a moon wrapped in brown paper.

It promises light like the careful undressing of love.

It is believed the onion originally came from India. In Egypt it was an object of worship. From Egypt the onion entered Greece and on to Italy, thence into all of Europe.

In the Eden of my eternal autumn midnight garden:

The consummate wild onion grows,

extending its vines of love up the walls of the deepest parts

of my spirit.

When I think how far the onion has traveled

just to enter my stew today,

I could kneel and praise all small forgotten miracles,

excitedly and gently peeling the crackly paper,

bounty after bounty is offered me.

Pearly layers in smooth agreement,

mantle upon mantle of perfect, zesty wilderness

revealing bits of fascinating history and depth that knows no perimeters.

And I would never scold the onion for causing tears.

It is right that tears fall for something so noble

but taken for granted, forgotten.

How at meals, we sit to eat,commenting on texture of meat or herbal aroma

but never on the translucence of onion,

now soft, now divided,

or its traditionally honorable career:

For the sake of others, disappears.

Onion, luminous flask, your beauty formed

petal by petal,

crystal scales expanded you

and in the secrecy of the dark earth

your belly grew round with dew.

Under the earth the miracle happened,

and when your clumsy green stem appeared,

your leaves were born like swords in the garden,

the earth heaped up her power

showing your naked transparency,

and as the remote sea in lifting the breasts of Aphrodite

duplicated the magnolia,

so did the earth make you,onion,

clear as a planet,

and destined to shine,

constant constellation,

round rose of water,

upon the table of the poor.

Generously you undo your globe of freshness

in the fervent consummation of the cooking pot,

and the crystal shred in the flaming heat of the oil is

transformed into a curled golden feather.

Then, too, I will recall how fertile is your influence on the love of the salad,

and it seems that the sky contributes

by giving you the shape of hailstones

to celebrate your chopped brightness

on the hemispheres of a tomato.

But within reach of the hands of the people,

sprinkled with oil,

dusted with a bit of salt,

you kill the hunger of the day-laborer on his hard path.

Fairy godmother wrapped in delicate papyrus,

you rise from the ground

eternal, whole, pure

like an astral seed,

and when the kitchen knife cuts you, there arises the only tear without sorrow.

You make us cry without hurting us.

I have praised everything that exists,

but to me, onion, you are more beautiful

than a bird of dazzling feathers

you are to my eyes a heavenly globe,

a platinum goblet,

an unmoving dance of the snowy anemone

and the fragrance of the earth lives in your crystalline nature.

Dear Onion:

Your fierce kiss will stay on my lips,

loyally lingering and faithful as we are,

for as long as we are.

Your scent will cling to my fingers,

cleansing my eyes with tears

like a lover.

The white blooms of your floral head

scatter seeds of change and joy,

blossoming bright across my starry eyes

and bringing peace like arms of a mother.

Our skin is just a cover up for the land where none dare go,

an internal inferno, the anathema of anatomy.

In an onion there's only onion,

from its tip to its toe,

onionymous monomania,

unanimous omninudity.

We hold veins, nerves, organs, fat

For us, our skin is merely a mask

But the onion does not realize its own courageousness

(lion among men)

For it bears no camouflage

Inch by inch, between the endless tiers

(exploration is shameless)

it is purely Onion

a quiet, gentle giant

that will live far beyond three hundred years.

Nature's roundest tummy, its greatest success story,the onion drapes itself in its own aureoles of glory.

And I find no coincidence in the fact

that I used to loathe the taste, fear it

and not too long ago- a shift in the path

now I savor, with endless relish, the poignance

especially raw and crisp, stimulating the entirety of my health

the powerful taste of mother nature herself.

Day 17
Pacing a faceless maw somewhere vague

the crawl space is a place for rubber chickens
in a lime wig and non taped nerd kit glasses.
my fake tattoo sleeve is sweaty and i'm hoping for a miracle,
a recipe for success in the racks of vintage and burlesque,
some pretty piece of puzzle.
weird feelings build and flux like bloody, melting childhood mountains
rainbow majesty in overture.
gone again and i'm craving a silk caress across this heated skin,
like my mustard gold venice scarf
a simple stroke for us odd dreamer folk.
black tea, iced and sweating/suits me
and my thoughts sound like seasonal flavors
and those little pumpkin buckets we used to hang from tree branches.
beneath there is an aching
i have no name for this
distraction is the exotic birth of instant gratification
and it is an embraced given that fall brings such things,
occult happenings
the full moon the night prior is a reminder
purple glitter batter underground of batting lashes
beaded secrets in the bathroom,
blue painted eyes that sparkle with red label
and i'm frightened, sensing the nervous sickness in his absence
and simultaneously craving the bareness
that only i know exists underneath the orange-yellow-browns


she photographs my profile beneath the grayscale polka dotted straw
mismatched greenblue polka germany sweater and all
and i can almost recall a time
when all the trees wrapped me in vagary things
reminders of a true, unadulterated freedom in overhang form
like a beloved shadow that momentarily frightens you,
and then becomes a comfort constant.
his voice is my smile in skin softening vanilla water
and i can almost imagine he is beside me,
climbing, slipping, sliding, delving, soaking
gleeful laughter a bittersweet symphony
as the colorful sugar palisade avalanche buries us,
we are immortal on our playground.
(and if the flames take you out,
i'll go down too
but only after grabbing some ashes,
taking them to the garden,
baptizing the seeds-to-fruit,
and eating some of you.
the perfect last meal.)

Day 18
A second dip
Too beautiful to be a junebug
so instead, i'll be your firefly
guarding your bed & lighting the way so your nightmares can
swiftly find their way out the door each night.

without his hands, it took ten minutes.
at midnight
unzipped boots walk to the entrance of a begrudgingly open gas station
and i can't stop wishing for a change in scenery
but i cannot seem to discern the voice that beseeches me.
each morning i wake up smelling different
of temples,
rainforest canopies,
north winds and the crystal salts of deep sea,
open fields and mountain crossings,
foreign city smog and faraway beds
in each dream, one thing remains the same
i wed life,
walking an aisle of fallen soldiers in orange, yellows, and reds

it remains both life savior and silent killer- this dreamworld
bringing to us every buried or known fear, memory, longing, pain
celebrations of hauntings and visionaries
the most intense and intimate catharsis is through incubus
moment upon moment frozen,
as we subconsciously simmer in brain narcotics
organic waves of chemicals
and i will come find you,
every night if I have to to
make sure you are not on your back
and to practice my schlitterbahn skills
if you start to choke and suffocate in the depths of colored black
(that's what dreams remind me of. those papers we would color as kids, that were an assortment of crayon rainbows, colored over by all black. you had to scratch at the murk, chipping it away, to form a pretty, vibrant picture in the darkness)
don't worry about your closed eyelids, lover
you keep on purging,
i'll be sure to keep you breathing.

no one lives to be three hundred anymore

Day 13 & 14
I think they were giants.

serial box heroes and cereal killers got nothing on us.
proof of power is in the rain, don't run
oh origin of life, dear vehicle of sanctity,
wash me in lushness of longevity
so that even in death, i am wet.
reality is complex,
not just because thousands of beasts less spectacular then the crocodile are present in water
but also because it touches upon what is not visible.
blood of the earth, freedom in falling
without the grace of embracing it
nothing grows on the hill except greed.

don't you waste me in the ground.
literally
my toothpaste reads
"J A S O N Powersmile"
(pure, natural, and organic)


i awake with the tail of dreams in my morning mouth
and maybe tails are not truly the ending, nor heads the beginning
memories of a summer spent east brings the rains south
for miles and miles I can see, I feel
the clouds part for his smile
mueseli with honey, chamomile
terrace talks in Rome,
it has been awhile.
i long to flee home now and then
-watch his face reflected in train window panes
dilapidated stands of records, rusty letters, postcards, books teaching Zen
nutella rice cakes and reminiscing
when a simple comfort in a street-pissing world lies
in the old man with a wooden tobacco pipe and sapient eyes
but today the pears are perfect in my mouth



i'm harvesting body paint ponderings and visualizing
the candid light of Austrian snow rooms
quilted red beds and wires that don't exist merely for message transmitting
but for framing mountain blooms
take me home in my white bikewheel ripped dress
if you promise to scatter yourself with me,
i'll be sure to do the rest,
i'll feel less alone.
we rarely make eye contact with the homeless.


head tinglies again. i revisit old fears
a little boy's dove noises in Vietnamese corner dives
minty plum sauce and ink spots, eerily alive
suddenly- swinging from familiar chandeliers
like i was born to love
(you)
a little girl's pink clad squeals echo, frolicking in fall frontyard spheres
as the smokysweet rain plasters dirty blond curls to callow cheeks
acetaminophen flies from cracked car windows
and i feel my heart leaping over the tree innard streaks
the support of self pleasuring hands slip from the cloth chair

i can smell the Santa Ana fire winds
and the orchard ink of his hair.