el tramposo [parte uno]

The day the news was spread like squealing lightning siren fire, from eave to eave like dangling, dripping, darkened happenings beneath moist autumn streetlights, a woman came home to her husband. She found him lying naked on the cambric couch, drowning in his dreams, where dew gathered in his throat and children with eager eyes sucked the ends of honeysuckle blooms and stood nearby, leering. The steel kettle was feverish and whistling deliriously, reminiscent of the wailing of winds and whistle warning alarms as she pulled her tornado tennis shoes on and tried not to think about the threat of sickness, tried not to float away.


Sometimes in his subconscious he would play with fire trucks- not minuscule plastic trinkets, but bright red monsters with ladders like claws, swinging and swooping and soaring. But on this particular afternoon, with its tightly wound coating of humidity that kept the mosquitoes plump and greedy, his soul was trying to escape-and in its valiant thrash of struggle it was choking him, floundering legs kicking at his throat and licking him with flame like Midwest field grass fires.


In another life, at another time, he would wake up startled and soaked in his own sweat, and his wife would sit next to him in the darkening light of the living room and rest her hand on his stomach in concern. She knew what it felt like, sleep that strangles, and she would murmur into his ear, nose nestled into the coarse curls of sideburns there, and tell him,
"Sometimes I forget I'm looking at another person."


He would twist his position and realign himself with her, breathing beginning to recycle, and ask her in a voice guttural with extinction,
"What do you think you're looking at?"


"Myself."


But on this day, he would not awake yet, would keep himself suspended in the sludge of detox as he slept, slept restlessly like a child on the bright blue nap mats after recess and apple juice, and she padded quietly past to the kitchen to check the voice messages, feeling the mounting pressure of trepidation swarm her skin in prickles like something was beyond not right in the world. The birds weren't chirping. There was a deep and thickening silence like the static weight of underground, but with a barely concealed current of menace like the hot wired charge rumbling through the hollows of tall ceiling rods.


The air outside was boiling in such a way that made people forget, momentarily, their own names, and stumble through the darkness of the day.


And the woman found no red blinking light amidst the black plastic, but she found a hastily scribbled note on the purple sticky pad resting on the dining room table,


Call Joe


it read.


The woman felt a strangeness wash over her, and she picked up the cold cordless phone receiver and walked to the patio door window, drawing the blinds high and peering outside as the storm rolled in quicker like the unfurling spindly fingers lining God's palms. She hated the sound of dial tones and dialed the familiar number quickly; next door the new neighbors were watching a Wonder Years marathon, and the screen flickered across the grey outpourings of bloodclotted clouds, beckoning to her from the twilight zone of Janurary's dim.


Rain pellets suddenly blossomed across the clear panes before her eyes, picking up shards of shattered light like CMWK rainbow droplets of saliva on a computer screen, and she fell to her knees and screamed. Her despair was shrill and careening as the telephone slipped from her hand and hit the chilly, indifferent marble tiles with a crack and a snap, breaking apart and eviscerating itself instantaneously.

breakfast

And he refilled his coffee, quietly beautiful beyond the crystal rock candle holder, peppermint smile; even the adolescent pre-teens with cokes and cartoon knapsacks and string-bean legs could not ruin this morning moment. Over the conjoining gazes, there lived a lone kiwi splash of green on the plate palette, as the lovers spoke in the tongue of Southern forest regions where canopies sheltered the flourishing foliage beds like queens protected by stone air castles.
"I want to kiss you again," he whispered across his second cup, crumbs clinging to his favorite sweater sleeves lined with static along the casually fathomless talk of authentic Spanish cooking, Mediterranean lifestyle cravings. His coffee spilled as he sheepishly stumbled over his concession and thanked her absentmindedly but meaningfully for breakfast, gratitude slipping from his profuse, scaffolded lips.

And they became symmetrical strawberries. Split perfectly down the middle, two equal portioned parts of a ripe, delectable whole. Fiddling, he was quite simply breathtaking, and there was talk of Franz Kafpka: breakfast of champions, hungover life of the Gods. There are gourmet cheeses, fresh fruit, chocolate croissants, and fresh baguettes; across the small, subtly lit room, the old woman coughs, a dry and wheezing sound, as he inquires the restaurant owners about the coffee...something about the earthy-ness of Fredricksburg origin.
And then there was Mexico. "I have to show you that place."

And she believed him.

The dark, rich Mexican coffee. Thick, sweet bread fresh and steaming in the windows of the street bakeries, fish tacos and virginal bananas. The mention of chorizo and barbacoa cooked in a plow disc, with iced chileda to wash down with, made saliva gather in her mouth regardless of her vegetarianism.

It's all about the separation of flavors. Being inside of one another. And she could see her reflection, echoed back effortlessly.
He was growing passionate about Tibetan highlanders, the practices of women marrying families of brothers...and she was studying his pineapple-brie smudged fingertips intently, wondering if it would be considered an appropriate response to suck the remnants off. Probably not. But when he worked himself up and his storm blew in,when the vehenemence of his animation beset him, she couldn't help but humor the stumble of her composure. He licked them, catching her eye. That smile. He. Him.


"Did you hear about what the Pope said?"

One statement.
Cleaning the crumbs.

The Catholic Church was tooting their own horn and she felt the relishing of glory as a lightbulb fizzled on in his top right brain quadrant and he text messaged his editor about the next article he would write. She could sense it turning over in his words, passion singing and slightly smug as he deserved to be.

Later she would long for the Tibetan Book of the Dead, hearing the Munich monks chanting once more in the spinning carousel of her head, haunting her beautifully. He would take notice and mental note it, plotting the next novel he would buy her, small gesture of affection. He had packed up all his things, ready to send off, live a monastic life, and it was flooding his eyes as he admitted this, holding her hands across the table. He loved her enough to be her fellow conundrum, watching her closely from the other side, the sway of her rainbow earrings, lips tumbling smiles at her sadistic curiosity and mention of past pain inflictions.

The Universe works in the most mysterious of ways, sabotaging her sabotage. It would not let anything ruin these slow Sunday mornings,
the sunlight newly glowing in their eyes as they descend ever deeper into the world,
completing circles of soul.
Welcome home.








There exists a transition from religious to spiritual,
it is a crowning point, a spark plug, exigency,
high noon.

Stillness speaks.
"When you stop trying to define it, you can actually be it."

All the in between,
the most powerful of joys, ecstasy,
are not meant to be spoken about aloud or described accurately (and yet still, the pen is impossible to set down sometimes).
And maybe being a good writer is to understand this.

even Russia.

Cool air seeping in from the grubby, cracked windowsill soothing and smudging
along naked flesh,smothered in rivulets of warm water
beneath the detached shower head
being cradled between bare legs
in careful cogitation
as if a honeyed olive oil soapsud complexion
could celebrate
a body's onomatopoeia,
reinforcing the source
through port manteau
like Spilling
fresh homemade salsa,
piquant and playfully sheepish/
straight from the jar all over work clothes
or the beans about being in love, accidentally, on the deck over the river mid-rant.

Clumsy collection of collisions
akin to a pre Columbian coalition
of stalwart-skinned feet caught in the gateway;
beloved hindrances
like hitting sensitive hips on the doorknob,
or reading Great Gatsby out loud during the simplicity of bathroom trips.
And there exists an aggregate becoming,
coming
full circle,
a newfound and spellbound Discovery Zone
after loss of patience and false defeat.
Her finding lies
in an earth vendor,
an enthusiastic lender
of an open ear to the elderly Air Force storytelling
and ramblings
about gardening and Indians,
as squash plants and basil leaves distinguish
a damp and dewy resting place,
untrodden landscape,
state-of-the-art
and slowly paving the path
for nest building,
exploring bandwidths of growth
from the smoldering ash of eradication
creation from destruction/
jolting forward in soaring space and
vein webbing.



The Night Sky stretched and wrapped tight across the swept lands of epitome
like MamMah's quilted counterpane,
painstakingly and fearlessly encompassing all directions,
nursing
childhood nostalgia bled from starlight, sweeping winds of Capri blowing secrets
and the three of them have suddenly become
the most exquisitely delicate of
leaden soldiers
looking forward.



It must be.
(Es muss sein)
Go.
Take it and run with it.
Respect Wordsworth's original words
as the clouds of Plaster edge ever closer to the moon,
floating with Southern seeds of the future's call to arms
advocating steel sunflowers around a wedding band finger
and yet foreseeing something far more superior,
when questioning the hunting of doves
quickly becomes an entity
quite utterly crushed
beneath the helm
of the favorite
worn out
pair of
shoon.

She took off her black strappy sandals,
soft wine stained lips
parted in contemplation
of past flings,
voice transpiring
to echo like moisture-beaded cave swallows
in the hollowed glass.

Her Mexican blood was bubbling
as a floater's should,
head bent to smell the non-jasmine blossoms
in the tree overhang.
The dynamic embroidery on the caustic yellow
of her blouse
clung to her thin frame
in geometric floral swirled traditions
with practiced ease,
and she was fully unaware of her cultivated beauty.

They sat outside on the cabin's stone porch
beyond the stretch of summer,
sweat beading quiet as he wove tales from his mountain days,
stealing glances at Honey from across the way,
the cradle of hammock recumbent
and swaying.
He spoke of the music of lightning storms,
of rock throwing contests
in open

air fields,
of week long sojourns to nirvana;
eyes glazed with recollection of escape.


She would find ways to blame herself
and they would resist,
choking her words away
with
rich wines,
virtuous foods,
heated water,
tree fairy tinkle-bells of laughter,
sour cream coffee cake.

And they celebrated her life that night. The severing of a tie, the receding of stagnant tide.

Creaky bones sighed beneath the stretch of stringy, wilting skin that beset her weary body, singing in blind faith as only the most devotional of hymns do, stretching the silences like painstakingly hand-woven quilted blankets. Her handled crutch inched forward languidly, she was in no rush to live, or to remember. Breakfast was a stable subsidy of the not-so -distant future, and the wide, perpetual grin congealing her cracked red-stained lips gave confirmation to this fact: she was not afraid of death.

Genavive moved with the slow reason and humility of forgetful grace, stringy oyster hair giving glimpses of scalp while her gaping, toothless turtle mouth sculpted an inexhaustible smile that seemed to give away her merciful joy. That same jack-o-lantern smile was fixed on the recollections of the shrill, sincere giggles of youths rather than aches and pains, no matter how prevailing or arresting. She held the steaming mug close to her hollowed chest, which was still and gently rising, falling beneath her cream blazer; the pantyhose crumpling under her open toed sandals, balling near the pinky toes, seemed to sing of the rings of years past like the innards of the most archaic, judicious of redwoods. Her peach silk shirt rustled in diplomatic complacency as her napkin stippled her face in an effortlessly stately manner, pooling into a lingering and unwavering gaze that emanated contentment.

She sat in the bay window alcove looking out over the neglected yard and once-garden she could no longer afford the strength to sufficiently maintain, no tinge of regret visible in her eyes, all forlorn debris wiped clean by reverence for life and all it brings. Her dry whisper of a cough barely made a ripple in the gentle air of the pea green house with its teal and coral trim, brittle like the trembling age-spotted hands and sunken wrinkles of time etched into the corners of her eyes. There was an immeasurable dignity in her gestures, the clutching of the warm mug with two hands, grasping the cup as if it were a prize, a small treasure in peacefully delicate times. She always drank hot apple cider in the summertime even though it made sweat gather and bead beneath her nylon stockings;it stirred a peaceful familiarity within her that reminded her of years past, cold winters in her old New Jersey home, back when she could still bounce for hours on the oversized trampoline with her eyes closed. Soothing to the soul.

Staring out clasped in dream, she soaked up the scenes of droopy green landscape, with cracked tin watering cans, rusting brass wind chimes, and wrought iron gate lines, posts pointing skywards in silent exalt. The old wooden swing swung and creaked lightly from the unfolding hands of the largest tree branches shadowing the sloping hills of yard, its frayed yellow rope peeling away like slivers shellfish skin and quivering in the humid breeze. Genavive's children lived halfway across the continent and never bothered to visit. The grandchildren they had blessed her with were already too old for swings, but even when they were still ripe with youth and budding with energy, the swing had hung lifeless and empty from the sprawling elm arms, a device she had appealed upon a strapping teen boy in the neighborhood-teeming with moxie and the need to build, move, create-to decorate the lands of her lawn with. She had hoped it would help entice more children to come and play within her viewing distance, so she could watch contentedly from her window, absorbing the purity of ecstasy and echoed staccato bursts of laughter. She was a happy woman. But even the happiest got lonely. Perhaps those that are capable of containing the most powerful of joys are also prone to the the heaviest of isolations.

But of course, it helped to have Erica. Erica had been her saving benefaction for many years now, had shared these long silences stretching tighter and wider as the days grew quieter. Erica had been with her, by her side, for the most lackluster nights nights and the most aching of mornings. Erica had faithfully walked beside her every cool evening, down the road to the edge of the the grass knolls above the wide expanse of clearing that Genavive so adored-although not as much as the feel of the soft down of tight chocolate curls of her companion underneath her wizened hand. There was one lone tree that stood strong in the dead center of the valley, a tree of unknown name and breed that proudly shed its sheath of leaves in winter, reveling in self rebirth, and turned fire copper at the onset of autumn's sigh. This tree was very special to her. For this tree, Genavive had a place of the highest veneration perched on the pumpings of her heart, right next to the spot in which her beloved Erica remained.

Before dinner every evening the temperature allowed, she slowly worked her hips specifically to make this walk, for this tree, with Erica traipsing alongside her with no lack of loyalty. She would always stop her journey at the boundaries of the lush precipices bordering the trough, wishing she possessed the same balance, virility, and sturdiness the tree maintained, so that she could venture down the uneven terrain of the hills and cross into the mossy lowlands where the tree lived and breathed the Southern air like sailors inhaled the sea. But she did not lose herself in the wistful longing, she did not burden herself with ruefulness. Instead, she lived through the tree, from a distance- she lived its history, its honor, its growth, its vitality and veins of salted earth. She would remember the feel of another's fingers with her own. She would relish in the tree's whispered secrets, and the way that all existence ceased to exist when she spoke with it, from afar. With Erica always sprawling in the shade near her feet, sometimes panting and squinty eyed when the sun bled just right, but always watching her, Genavive would pray for love to always remain, and for each day she once again opened her eyes to reveal to her the world.

hún jörð

this purple rubber heart is a gift.


and the frame had pink gloved hands, green and pink (white 70's) sneakers chewed at the toes,
mangled and majestic,
it stood stooped and clumsy awkward,
but still supporting itself proudly with tribute to the endowment stored within.
and inside its sweet iconic embrace was the little boy, bald head and Dumbo ears,
cupcake icing smudged across his boyish lips,
goofy and half mischievous glee scrolled across tender features-
like the undercurrent of colorful candy shops with unicorn horn rainbow swirl lollipops-
complemented by the buffalo t-shirt.
and the eyes were the same,
still penetrating at such a young age.

Later, there are eyes like Bibles in the ancient ruins, converging and manifesting origin as she swears she will not let him lose faith in himself, ever. Stale popcorn like simple pleasures, the blood of Christ like living room floor promises, thriving in the light of your spirit and the life of your essence.

"Issachar is one tough donkey
crouching beneath the corrals,
When he saw how good the place was,
how pleasant the country,
He gave up his freedom
and went to work as a slave.


I wait in hope of your salvation, God.
Gad will be attacked by bandits,
but he will trip them up.
Asher will become famous for rich foods,
candies and sweets fit for kings.
Naphtali is a deer running free
that gives birth to lovely fawns.
May the blessings of your father
exceed the blessings of the ancient mountains,
surpass the delights of the eternal hills,
May they rest on the head of Joseph,
on the brow of the one consecrated among his brothers.

Benjamin is a ravenous wolf,
all day he gorges on his kill,
at evening divides what's left over....

Joseph threw himself on his father, wept over him, and kissed him."


Genesis 49.16-50


It's funny, the things we forget when we become too proud.


And
(No use crying over)
wine spilled...
(but they still did)
Over her,
and suddenly it was upon him as well,
and the pages were rolling with the waves of the purity of past moments
that are held balanced between two palms outstretched, exposed and naked,
there is nothing secular about the way your lips seek mine out in reverence, between shadows and the sun's last fading rays.


Two slots in the ice cube try were replete with watery sustenance, and there are gunshot fireworks on the horizon, like bombs falling in the distance, as the little girl with pigtails and the young boy in denim suspenders held hands and walked until the end of the earth was upon them. His heart was heavy and hers was thump-thumping furiously as she suddenly sensed his hidden tribulation, as the earth shattered from its outskirts inwards, explosives descending to splinter fate as they lit the hillsides with broken yet newly blossomed faith and highlighted the small children's darkening, freckled skin...devotion bleeding shard-bits of the allegiance it had been simmering in. The passing cars were whispering hints of street rain like they did in the early summer when porch lights were still meaningful enough to remember, when the warm oil-soaked strands of Yucca branches called out across the foreign lands to lure in strangers from the past. Sirens squalled in the far-off as God spoke through her for the first time. They cried together, and they loved one another, and the Universe collapsed inwards as the lights of the city skyline sizzled and fizzled out, disappearing with puff-puff-puffs of air (breathing in, and out, slow and steady). And yet, in the darkness, their eyes still sparkled.



Frozen wine bottles and giving trees were not quite enough for me,
but I will hold your hand no matter how dim the candles flicker,
and when all else ceases mobility I will swallow the disquiet until I begin to tremble and cannot contain the movement of your soul,
then I will explode and scatter (fear existing but abating)
all over and upon your every waking moment
like the realization that clouds can burst while still propagating.










And when the morning comes the sickness will be in her, stout, having sucked it from the martyr's skin while he slept and subconsciously slipped out of, shed the sloughed shell of struggle.

en mi alma (dos meses)

Quiero correr con usted entre los caribúes y sentir tu cuerpo contra las minas en las ruinas.
Voy a encontrar tu en la quema de bosques.




Voy a amarte hasta que mi cuerpo físico deja de existir, e incluso después de que, mi espíritu se saborean en los suyos.




[El cardenal está fuera de la ventana.]

demon fuzz

tidbits:
tear it to shreds,
(the past is a grotesque)
animal
noises

it has been a long time since I had a place I called my own.

when you finally learn to respect yourself after years of failed attempts,
it feels like coming home.

everyone who knows me is aware of how much of an advocate of detox i am. (damn new aged hippie freak)


co-dependence is
battles of bedazzled wars,
and now it has become clear and laid bare at last-
learning after the saxophone blisters and harmonica hand me downs
(ground into ash crumbles of crinkly pavement beneath old suede boots and feet just slightly too large for body type,
sexy vinyl spins and then you feel reborn
again and again
wires singing in shame but not without reason
as the seasons shift towards new once more)

1.

The day I leave the city, the sky is spitting. It's three days earlier than I had so painstakingly planned. I'm queasy and gassy- too much cheap tequila last night. Correction: just the right amount, actually. I can feel the bruises starting to form on my thighs. I ate enough RaisinBran this morning to feed a small country in the Eastern Hemisphere, leaning against the counter stovetop his tiny kitchen space, watching him sleep. He was tangled in his Winnie the Pooh sheets, naked, his puff of dusty curls haloing his babyface on the torn pillowcase. I left two scribbled notes and a poem in the back of his graphic novel on the smudged tile on his bathroom floor; the quarter full liquor bottle sitting topless next to the sex armchair. If I took it with me I was sure to get drunk on the bus. I think I'm still a little drunk, anyway.

I'm trying to ignore the sinking sensation, the nagging feeling that I shouldn't be leaving. It wasn't supposed to happen this way. It was supposed to be nine divine days, nine sinful nights of self-delving, dolce vita...romantic, sensual, adventurous- with mornings waking up wrapped up in him and days where I am his Maria,
nights where he pulls screams from my swollen lips like God gasping for air in the heated Babel evenings,
where language had no hold or meaning,
where every tongue found its love burning in the face of another,
in the sands of ever after,
and not in the post scrutiny of desperation...
where pretension chokes recession of growth through fingerless gloved hands
on dirty, emotionless streets of the West corners.

There is no more whispering out loud, among these soggy, piss soaked streets, uncomfortable and stiff a lot like me, remembering his disdain and distance as he walked me to the station in the rain,
backpack half zipped and leaking belongings as I stole sideways glances at his dampened homeless clothes and oceans of callow skin.
And now I've got a nonrefundable ticket to some shithole in Montana, where I'll transfer to another bus that will take me for Denver, then hop on yet a third that will send me all the way to Dallas...but at least I get to take a little piece of him with me,
I guess.

My nether regions are still throbbing, gathering a dull ache as the minutes pass, and a few hours ago I sprawled naked on the icy, ambivalent checkerboards of ceramic stone next to his shower, pen hastily scribbling words both ornery and wistful, tinges of tiny bits of sadness evident even as I sign off by telling him (for the first time with true meaning, and yet with none at all) I love him.

I remember the last and first sentences of the letter only-
it began with, "I don't know what time it is. The blinds are rattling, you're already snoring, and the deep wet warmth of you between my legs is making me want this moment to linger on much (MUCH) longer."

I peeled off the black satin gloves and I sat there a jumbled heap. Tableau of the royal mess I am, right now. He was right- I am dumb.
Utterly, completely,
idiotic. For making the decisions I have made,
these days.

I'm watching the Vietnamese woman that owns the Pho Bac- the cozy dive thai joint in the train station- fill the bottles of cock sauce,
and fuck,
I'm dwelling on the morning trudge to the bus station once again,
paper bag of random groceries soggy and near ripping, quiet and disgusted.
Everything is damp and gloomy, my face and pride are sticky, our goodbye is brief and lacking,
devoid of any emotion,
obligatory hug.

That's right, I did take your suspenders.
Take THAT
you lousy bum:
You'll shake your head in disbelief and call me crazy
[but I would rather hold that title than the realization I treated someone like shit
put them down and turned them away with assumptions
because they disappointed my unrealistic expectations-
of what love,
or something like it,
is supposed to be.]


Soggy amber leaves plastered to wet pavement, construction workers- dirty drapings of denim and matching hardhats. Coarse voices a distant rumble behind A Whole New World:
I'm singing in my head, his fault,
oh -and the irony just had to strike me
just as we're passing places we could have torn up,
together.

He's delicious in his woolen brown old man's sweater with the elbow patches, eyes still lazy with morning, damp cigarette dangling from one mouth corner as he refuses to meet my eyes or ask questions,
business once more,
highbrow as always.

I debate dropping my entire load of baggage (pun intended) and running the mile or two back to his apartment to crawl back into bed with him. For the first time in a long time, I suddenly crave nicotine. I'm talking myself out of buying a pack at the next stop. I think I might cry a little, instead.
Like last night,
sweaty,
makeup running,
lying half on and half off his throne of glorybox,
trying to swallow my sobs and hiccups as he dozed off beside me in post coital slumber.
One of his knees was propped up against the wall, both arms splayed lazily above his head.
I bit my own lip to keep from making audible whimpers,
and drifted off disturbed and drunk instead,
and yes-indeed, he did hold me at one point,
I'm not sure what to make of it but don't really give a rat's ass,
anymore.
I will say I'm through,
all the while knowing I should have been long ago,
and not quite convincing myself either way,
scrambling to sever the ties and leave the pieces behind, but all the while missing the puffs of his cheeks when he laughed in my direction and smiled in multiples of
sincerity and slight surprises of affection.




2.

I miss the tunnels in the Czech countryside,
writing in the dark train tunnels
(those moments you meet eyes with a stranger, briefly,
on a passing bus in a foreign land)

The hills were so alive to me,
life so full to bursting,
splendors so big and so small I often thought I would..
spontaneously combust

I want to be back on the cobblestoned streets of Prague,
amongst the terracotta-cream-mint buildings
(with only three malicious dogs)





3.

When I rub the pumpkin spice into my thirsty skin, remembrance floods me-
and when I step out into the icy, clear,
Cedar strewn night air,
my body acts of its own accord,
becoming flushed, soft, and warm from the sudden onslaught of thoughts...
like legwarmers enveloping taut thighs,
which are pressed tight to the fleshy sides of your neck,
you allow them to quiver alongside your cheeks momentarily before peeling them off,
slowly.
I have no words
for the sensations that pulsate through my spine
upon recalling your teeth clamped tight,
divine
HARD
around circles of my flesh.




4.

We are deer, naked wild, I'm caught in the headlights-
jumping and tripping,
skipping through your mind.


5.

You.
manifest in me a fierce understanding and amity of the human condition.


6.

I think it was Freud that said that the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over, hoping to get different results.
Each time, you are believed to know better,
and to learn a valuable lesson on account of your mistakes.
So then what exactly makes someone repeat certain actions when they indeed know better?
Insanity? Defiance? Stupidity?


7.

We drove through a winter wonderland last night....some nameless Northwest cities. Quiet. Still. Empty. Covered in a fine layer of snow that seemed to absorb all noise (Except for the glow of inward hatred).
My boots crunched footprints into it, tossing a little onto my dirty pantlegs- I had to refrain from kicking it up joyously in girlish excitement: the gas station was playing Don't Fear the Reaper, and I felt odd.
I could only afford a shitty side salad at McDonalds...my last dollar. I'm going to have to break down, choke down my pride, and ask for more funds before I make it to the last and final stretch, homeward bound.
I've already stolen two granola bars...
would have gotten more but these goddamned gas stations have video cameras and fairly watchful patrons minding the registers.
I hate this.
I spent the last of my money on an expensive meal for him that I struggled vigorously at getting flawless,
some cheap liquor to make sure he got drunk enough to love me momentarily,
and now all I have to show for it is a ruin of overfucked, over-invested friendship and infatuation,
backtrack five years and maybe then I would be the one inducing vomit for a smidgeon of pity.
How sickening. I disgust myself.
And as for whatever happened to my self respect and dignity...
leaving early to try and retain a semblance of it means nothing if I counteract my own redressed intentions,
perhaps she was right: I'm pathetic and desperate.


8.

I can hear you sucking on the cigarette through the reciever

and the deep-lit darkness of humid late summer night-breeze seeps between the cracks-
splintering my skin, soaking it,
I'm recalling the unsteadiness in my footsteps as your voice penetrates the balmy stillness
first glass of thick, rich wine in months...
it slides through the vein web-locks deliriously,
sending forth sparks of urges that surge through red chipped fingetips
whispering, "write of this"
such sexy venom
leave me, sickness
my entire body is thrashing with disease,
need for him


9.

I'm watching you lick your blood scab
cheeks flushed
eyes half lidded and lazy
you light up
I can hardly stand this
why won't you allow me to have it one more time,
just a little something to remember you by?
last night
please.
permanent marker behind your ear
puffy lobes so biteable
your confidence sucks me in
black hole,
howling.

deliver me

and sometimes I dream of Spain
crisscrossed wired strings of laundry happenings
like garden awnings, with ivy rich red bricks,
mulled wine shades splashed across pouting skies of grey and gold
clay pot etchings speak shrilly
as we spin through the night, just to get it right-
this sensation
the heat of Eastern summer evenings
the wind whips us into dance
as the tied sheets scramble
and liberation unravels our doubts
that this is less then just right
and the lights are in the trees
with every pressure change
we surround ourselves with saving grace,
the distant sea lullabies
crashing waves of bareboned battles
between pleasures of flesh and spirit
our secrets steam in the wrought iron corners,
pot kettle black
wooden carvings and open doorways laugh, like ancient art

when my tousled spirals turn into faded knots of memory
sometimes my desire to flee is so searing it becomes flesh eating
and i feel the sickness swallowing me feet up
speak to me in Spanish,
release this tightening in the center of my throat
and early in the morning, middle of the night
i wake up damp and feverish near delirious
with train cabin hauntings
remembering the doughy thick pretzels pressed tight between cardboard and foil
the mist settling over the cold dawning fields
savored from the cherry tree
wind farms slow motion moan
when a one man memorial service given from jean-clad knees
soaked to the bone
light with ancestry's ashes
bone after bone bubbling with creation
is enough to broaden the horizons of a hundred forever afters

come with me,
the road to awe.

heaven is

rainbow stained open window paned showers after lingering wind-dance runs.
chocolate and cherries with bitter amber chasers.
marshmellow lips, slow Sunday morning post brunch parking lot shared kiss,
leisurely sinking into the Universe,
deep into hearts and windows down
no music for once- letting the rhythms and noises of the world soak into skin, reveling in them,
Full
to the brim.




The woman's feet pounded the amber gravel ruthlessly, crunching and grinding out invisible patterns, gesticulating, lingering and sinking into the sun baked grounds.
Her soul was laughing loudly, with dignity but without postulation; her blood was singing in her veins. She was on her second circle, round two of her late afternoon run through the quiet, rustling woods. She had already stopped at an old abandoned amphitheater to have tea with her own mind, who had expressed its belief that yes, it was about time. The earth had murmured to her through the eaves of the concrete, ivy, and Frisbee golf sites scattered like sporadic sunken treasures among the alder trees. It had said, you're home now, you have found your place, and it is everywhere; you belong here. With me. By his side.

The sunlight was filtering through the bramble of tree branches, and the humidity that she had felt sink into her skin upon entering the outside air was now being swept away by whips of wind from the Northeast that brought cool tumbles of clouds. She sucked in air gratefully, feeling it slide down her throat and fill her lungs like water, cleansing and nourishing, panoptic. Musical eyes soaked up the birth of light all around, suddenly coming to rest upon a small, lone bell-shaped bloom off the beaten path. Stopping in her tracks, she stood and stared, unmoving. The forest was still suddenly, motionless, and the clearing that she moved off the gravel to step into was a dreamscape of earthen browns, mottled grays, subtle greens. The only vibrant splash of color, standing tall and proud, stately, autonomous, was this little gem of blossoming sienna-red floret.

Her feet crushed leaf crumbles and brackets of dried thicket as she wandered closer, curious and enthralled, humbled by the beauty and mesmerized by the underlying flow of energy, the intimation beneath the surface of unbroken flesh (browned by the summer). She felt spiderwebs brush her flushed face and did not care, did not move to pull them away from her sticky skin or damp, tangled hair. The woman saw him there, saw him in this flower, hearty and courageous, alone but bound infinitely to everything surrounding, with nature and immeasurably one with the world. She bent down and kissed the garnet petals delicately, eyelids fluttering shut and yes, yes she could see, feel his lips enveloping her own, plushy and vastly searching, loving and sultry. It was as though her downturned face was really meeting his own upturned mouth, silken and pliable and feather-soft. She lost herself in this moment of daydream bliss, on this hidden island in the foilage of heaven, and forgot who she was for a moment, knowing nothing but the inward growth of soul and merging of magics.

When the woman's eyes reopened at last to allow the scenery to permeate her sight, her mind once more, she felt herself melting and transuding into the terrain, sweaty and complacent. She felt another presence suddenly, as though secret eyes were following her every nuance of movement, and she turned instinctively, calm but still sentient. No other being or mammal was anywhere to be seen, but her eyes seemed to float instantly over to the source, the essence reaching out to her through the caresses of eternal spring. Another sanguine, cardinal colored flower grew a few yards away, dancing gleefully in the tempering currents, independently evolving, divine and prospering.

The two blushing scarlet jewel-blossoms were saturated with virility, regardless of their solitude, and their auras fed off of one another, salubrious and wholesome. The woman could sense an invisible symbiosis vibrating in the air between the pair of breathing, propagating metaphors- a tacit juncture that was more alive than anything perceivable by time. The union between the secular spheres of the isolated flowers was fertile, lush, and the woman was moved to tears. She stood there momentarily, feeling it roll over her body in fragrant waves, lulling her spirit into a state of quiescent tranquility she had never known before or imagined to exist. She acknowledged it with a smile, then continued on her way, newborn and overflowing with raw bliss.

She stopped once more, further down the path, and kneeled, everything within her laid bare, and lowered her forehead to the rock strewn turf, resting it there for a moment and breathing in the thick earth where the soil was turning and the pebbles warming. And from her subjacent position, knees scraped and sullied, the woman expressed her thankfulness fervently, only lifting her gaze to collide with the sun's rays, staring into the lustrous voltage with hungry, open eyes. And she knew it, just as she knew the burning orb would rise every dawn until the day it burst and shattered in the sky, spewing the beginning of the end in the form of utter darkness over the forsaken lands. She felt it flood her and pervade every orifice and stoma with trembling shocks of cognizance that felt a lot like thunder bolts- out of the blackness, out of endlessness, out of the thick and anxious silence like an admission spoken unexpectedly into the motionless, meaningful hush within a lovers' car ride home.

When she rose again, everything was illuminated. She began to run, run back the way she had come. As tides turned and tossed and maneuvered tectonic plates, all the while whispering her name and reaching out to her from provinces away, a longing grew and crawled, creeped up the walls of her consciousness, and she wanted to run and run and run until the sea enveloped her aching feet.

She spoke his name aloud. She rolled the syllables around her tongue like sugar coated strawberry slices on a midsummer's day, and swallowed them, then spit them out once more, enunciating each subtlety, delighting in the piquancy. And then she whispered, spilled, vocalized, sang her secret into the bubbling gusts of wind that were flying alongside vessel and mind alike, sending it into the open with an articulate shove and a gleeful leap. The woman's expatiation of devotion was released with only the burgeoning branches of God as her witness, and she was satisfied with this. The overhang of unseasoned April overheard her admission, that she loved him, and later,when the day began to deepen and grow weary and heavy, like cumulonimbus cloud formations beginning to sprout visceral lightning storms, a spark manifested.

A fertilization beyond conceivable notions, unspoken and unbeknownst: a few days later, she would run through the same corners of the world and stumble across a third cherry-chestnut baby bloom, the offspring of two souls converging.

old manifesto just for fun

Art of this century does not just speak aloud to viewers, it screams...and thrashes, bleeds, squirms. It is raw and carnal in its nature and yet cuddly like a childhood teddy bear; it clings to your hands like the remnants of a juicy orange,
dripping,

Drizzling,

Down chins and lips.

I believe in the art of hardened nipples, upside down hair blow-drying, sap staining car windows.

An ethereal, otherworldly art that sings, dances, laughs, hates, cries, loves, parties, creates, destroys, links, uses, and fucks.

Art of this century is everywhere and nowhere at once. It must be sought out and used to slowly bang one's head against until an idea bursts forth and coats them thickly. It builds from tradition yet is unconventional; it breaks norms into pieces and rearranges them apathetically at random. It is harmonic in all its chaos, like the crashing,

Splashing,

Breaking of waves upon warm waiting sand.

I believe in an art of contradictions, of revolution and peace alike, of the bizarre and the strangely sensual.
A vehement, insistent art that runs up to you and grabs you by the throat, squeezing you into oblivion with its power and impression.

Art must be enigmatic, always. There cannot be a specific answer to seek out, or a destination, only a conundrum-journey. It leaves you begging on dirt-dusted knees for more,
PLEASE,

More,

More....until you collapse in fatigue (only for a two minute break before going a second round).

Art of this century is scalding; it fixes what is broken and breaks what is fixed. It throws reality in a blender and sprinkles dreams atop, sending them into a flurry and opening the top suddenly, so the contents fly,

Hurtle,

Careen every which way.

I believe in the art of broken taillights, lighting storms, winter bike riding, streams of sweat trickling down a spine, baby oil.
A playful, electric art that pokes fun at a stagnant society, that employs math, politics, science, and stereotypes in the creative process, then turns around and makes mincemeat of them.

Art of this century bends, twists like yoga and tickles then abuses your fancy into submission, like an eager dominatrix in black leather with dangling whips and chains. It sends you into the corner for time-out and draws a whimper from your lips; it feeds the frenzy and takes advantage of sensibility, oozing,

Seeping,

Gushing like chocolate syrup into the crevices of your mind.

I believe in the art of freckled and pierced noses, morning coffee, ready-made TV dinners, trashy magazines.
A paralyzing, stupefying art that recommends picking wedgies in public and turns heads faster than a perfectly proportioned redhead.

Art must be an intentional accident, always. There cannot be specific guidelines to strictly adhere to, or a certain direction to flow in, only a beautiful disaster of haphazard, sensory matter. Its effortless splendor heaves you down,
D

O

W

N

Deep...into the fiery pits of abandon (never to be seen again).

sometimes, no words: only metaphor

Recorded,
so I can remember.
Slows the Cedar Song
Exposing her quiet steps
Spill down a porch lit road.



Letter-Fiction
An Exercise-Experiment,
Getting in the Mood



It was the first morning he called her beautiful.

She had just gotten done getting herself off in the bathroom. She wondered how large a portion of her life had been spent in various bathrooms, masturbating. Holding her breath as the sensations poured over her. Probably a sizable chunk of time, yes, certainly. Now she was sitting at her desk, happily lining up small piles of salted almonds still in the shell, fresh blueberries, and vitamins. Her hair was a mess. It was always a mess. She cracked the husks of the nuts slowly and deliberately, savoring the dry, brittle popping noises and the messy shards of shell that fluttered to the desk. Her female cat, the long haired one with the wide, green eyes, was sitting at her feet perfectly still, watching her with those huge, black swimming pupils. No almonds for her- besides, she really just wanted to be petted. The feline watched as she swallowed her pills one by one, cautiously so as not to encounter the inevitable catching of one in her throat, that disgusting lump feeling that lingered for hours after.

She was still basking in it. The glorified satisfaction of the night prior, and of awakening early to the curve of his body, good coffee, classical music...oh, how she adored the lewd, whispered Spanish in her ear. She could get used to it, to him. Her days had been brighter lately, and her nights both amorous and quiescent, something akin to perfect.
They would take turns reading to one another,
and he would make her hot, buttery grilled cheese; they mixed mate and chianti in their stomachs with a glowing glee painted across both their faces,
sparkling eyes and flushed, warm cheeks.

Time to get down to business. She wanted to run a few miles and share this energy with the outside air, maybe masturbate again before class-but only after she stopped by the store for cinnamon. He had mentioned baked apples earlier, when their voices were still foggy with sleep and eyes still crusty, begrudgingly opening and closing in the day's first light. She liked satisfying his sporadic cravings, and seeing that glorious flash of white suddenly appear in the midst of a sea of stubble.

She had never been good with on the spot, vocalized expression. She could sit down, when in the right frame of mind, and effortlessly flood pages and pages with eager emotion. She could leave loved ones and strangers speechless in the wake of her written word; her passion easily tumbled from her, in the disguise of letters and punctuation points and carefully chosen metaphors, falling through her fingers to decorate blank pages and white, lined canvases. However, she was not quite as blessed with the ability to fluidly articulate affections and sentiments out loud. She would stumble over explanations and stutter a little, avert her gaze as her cheeks burned rosy and tepid. She liked to think of herself as a postulant connoisseur of words. Later, she would sit and simmer in all the possibilities of witty phrasings, the responses she had longed to give whomever she had been speaking with but had been unable to find the right choice of vernacular to assign to.

However, there were exceptions. If she was in a bullshitting mood, felt no need to be sincere, or was discussing manners of s simple, casual nature- it was gravy. Easy, baby. She could hold her own in these situations, and keep a steady hand and graceful mouth. It was when meaningful circumstances that stirred powerful pathos in her arose that her tongue tied itself in knots like cherry stems, sexy but useless.

So she had not surprised herself when she choked when he asked her, very persistently, the night before:
"What do you think about me?"

Her mind went blank. Wide open space and static, a gentle panic. How to describe the indescribable? Can't be done, writer or not. Her problem was, she couldn't accept this fact- stubborn shrew. She liked to try too hard. Stop it. There was such a thing as wasting time while
trying to impress.
Soul meets body.
Remember to breathe.
Tacit thoughts trembled like dewdrops on early morning lawns, threatening to clumsily spill down the blades with no regard to poise or pizazz. She lost herself in them and her lips were suddenly chapped, cracking a little at the edges. Her legs, bare beneath his old high school track shorts, were goosebumped and nervous jiggling.

She came to and found she was rambling.
God, what an idiot.
She briefly considered groaning in frustration but kept batting words around instead.

He was contemplative, patient, and romantic- tangled around her, eager for feedback. They were freshly showered and cozy and warm, tucked into the nook of couch cushions and wooden walls with bookshelves and canoe paddles and rain-forest blankets.

What she wanted to say was,
"I think you're stunning.
Breath stealing in all your mannerism rhythms,
lulling me into a hypnotic, ecstatic state
altering between peace, volatility, and carnality.
I like the way you jump and jolt in your sleep.
I like the way you always thank me,
so appreciative,
even when it is unnecessary or without real reason.
I like the way you are so involved in the lives and joys of others. Your loyalty, your ferocious compassion, quiet but fierce,
like a leopard, active and powerfully strong even while lounging in the heat.
I think you are blood of the earth.
Directly plugged into nature's core,
pertinently and inherently earth-bound and yet destined for the Great Beyond.
I like your raw spirituality,
how it seeps from your pores and casts a soft glow around every movement, every nuance.
I like your dark sensuality,
your hummingbird mind-
always busy, always flitting-flying in several directions, all the time (rapidly spinning, colorful blur of gems, fireworks, sparks, nectar).
I like your wide open eyes, your avoidance of the prevalent blindness sweeping societies,
observant and constant fidelity-
to questioning, delving, to living and loving life,
your loved ones, yourself,
the world.
I think you have a sparkling presence.
A gem of a judicious, perennial soul- a rarity,
with the ability to permeate and permutate, provoke change liberally.
I like your pure, undiluted sincerity. Your honesty, sometimes perfectly brutal,
but always in good taste:
I like your sarcasm, your opinionated, loud-mouthed, smart-ass spunk.
I like how you are not afraid, in the least,
LET GO.
(Release)
I like the boy in you-
your youthful spirit,
that childlike joyousness you have maintained and will always contain within...
and the man,
(from which stems that gorgeous and favored temporal laugh, post intimate acts)
the writer too.
(spectacularly woven webs of words that spin me up, wrapped in splendor and awe)
I like the boy scout in you,
showing his face sporadically through bouts of beautiful-useful-
handy-dandy-nonsense,
vivacious, innocent excitement.
I like the dirty, the nitty gritty, the violent, morbid, obscure propensities of your riddle.
I like how intuitive you are,
and how you read my body, my eyes, my vibes, my mind
like a worn in, favorite book-
nearly a second nature (every corner, every nook.)
I like you, your epic kindness, your perseverance and tenacity.
I like the hopeless romantic, the scientist, the intellect, the father, the missionary, the monk, the cynic,
the activist, the people pleasing politician, the hippie, the mentor/teacher and counselor/listener, the artist, the carpenter, the comedian, the performer, the philosopher, the perfectionist, the chatterbox, the worrywart/over analyzer, the historian, the cultured world traveler, the journalist.
I like every devotion, prayer, belief, ache, longing, restlessness, obsession, quirk.
I like you,
my wild colibrí, grizzly mountain man,
always in motion, changing,
with your inherent curiosity,
in all your whiskey drinking, manual laboring, outdoor-frequenting glory..
sexy little moments, country-boy materialization:
Your peekaboo accents send me spinning into giddy arousal.
I like the way you look at me when you want to kiss me,
how often you steal my breath..
I love your unrestrained laugh and that sparkle you get in your dreamer's eyes,
your weak stomach and your fear of death.
I love your vernacular and diction, your pouf of hair and sensual chameleon eyes, your flow and your friction.
I adore watching you...
how you move in the water,
how you play your music, how your music plays you,
how your singing moves and touches, resonates deeply-
how you let it, feel the beauty and omnipotence of the rhythm rip through you.
I like your incredible taste, (in everything),
getting in your car and hearing backwoods bluegrass playing,
coming home..
to you.
to fabulous new vinyl, good wine, chocolate, favorite groceries, tea already brewing, bedroom air thickening and smoky with nagchampa
and sex.
I like that you would do anything for me,
and how evident this is in every move you make,
and I like the steady-handed awareness within my core
that I would sprint to the ends of the earth and back for you,
give up all of myself...
that there is nothing I wouldn't do
or sacrifice
for your contentment,
not even my life.
I love how you fuck me.
The ways you make love to me,
the way your tongue parts me masterfully,
how perfect it feels to have you inside of my warm, moist depths,
how flawlessly our bodies fit together,
as though they were formed from mold that was meant to form-fit,
two pieces of a larger than life jigsaw puzzle separated at birth (reunited).
I love how you love, and know how, to fortuitously make use of your hands, body, mind, eyes, and voice
to the best of your ability...far more than most.
I like how you always give homeless men one beer,
how you always give me the last bite,
or the most flavorful slice of pizza.
I like how excited you get at every and any opportunity to make me smile or laugh.
I think you are this shimmering ball of radiant energy,
a dynamic, mellifluous shade of blue...
calming and possessing absolute peace yet harnessing sheer power:
my kundalini shakti.
I like your modesty, humbleness,
and yet your delicious confidence:
you know and love who you are, are are never scared to be yourself.
I adore your passion- how much you give all of yourself,
put all of your effort into, and pride yourself in
the things you do...
possessing true devotion.
I like how you refuse to settle for mediocrity,
and constantly push and challenge yourself,
and others, especially me-
I like that keep me accountable, how you make me work for it,
and how you endlessly and imcomprehensibly make me a better woman, a better human.
I like your nervousness during scary movies,
and that you are active, reactive, and proactive.
I like how much of a storyteller you are:
a spectacular performer of many trades...
your enthusiasm, animation, expressiveness,
painted across every exquisite inch of your face,
woven into your body language,
shimmering in your words.
I like that you get as hot about my talents, weird tendencies, quirks
as I do about yours.
I like that you are real-
you aren't the least bit pretentious or artificial,
attempting to woo me:
that when the resplendent words you are so capable of leave your lips,
when you tell me pretty things,
i know you mean them.
I think you are a magnificent elucidation of Balance...
even in your most crazed, chaotic moments:
silly and playful, a cheeky and grand sense of humor,
and yet serious at all the right moments/
affectionate and yet valuing of space: both yours and mine/
respectful, such a gentleman/an asshole when you need to be.
I like your dirty mouth and your titillating sexuality
I like how detail- oriented you are.
You make note of the little things,
the ones others never notice,
and take time to savor lifes simple pleasures.
I love that you understand the importance of holding things between excess.
You don't overdo it..
and you kiss me at just the right moments, but never too much,
you hold out, make me wait,
and ache,
and make me all the more awe-struck when you finally propitiate.
I adore your fierce independence, and the way you withdraw within yourself, do your own thing for hours on end, immerse yourself in you, and what satisfies your soul.
I like how you always open the door for me. Run on the outside. Give me the hot water. Sleep on the floor near me when I pass out on the couch. Are my alarm clock, even on grumpybitch mornings.
I think your corazón is pure, solid gold,
and the most luxuriant, sparklingly bright, captivating treasure,
gift,
I have ever been lucky enough to be graced with the presence of.
I love that you bury your face in the back of my hair. I want you to stay there,
to stay here
with me,
always."


She did not say any of those things. After his inquiry, cross-examination for sake of honesty, she just smiled mysteriously at him, and babbled like a chatty Cathy brook in spring's first wing stretching. After all, she was an avid proponent of letting the most powerful unmentionables remain unspoken.

Not unwritten, mind you.