Italian strangers

why is abbreviation such a long word?

I want to love
more.

I have a recurrent dream
Everytime I lose my voice
(feel a hoarseness)
I swallow little glowing lights
My mother had sun baked for me


i woke and could still trace lingerings of that voice

And during the night
They do a trapeze walk
Until they're in the sky
Right above my bed

(warm glowing oil into my my wide open throat)
it picks up where i left off


under low crawling branch tendril tumbles
the cars squeeze
front yards littered with dusty-pale deadheads of trees
as I drive, (eyes jumping, always back to beyond the sap streak stains)
pen in one hand, poised, ready to write
but instead, my sticky fingers opt to type,
still saccharine from the core of organic peach i was sucking on
(to see from his point of view)
was so submersed in the pitter-patter of heirloom and heavy-metal inflated brain waves
that i didn't hear the ambulances twice
my thought bubbles pop like orange cherry tomatoes

i'm crowded into radiation embrace
half sleeping, half forgetting how to breathe
as it screams and whistles through it's test modes
some kind of pulsating, whirrclickclick wailing coffin surrounding
the saline is at the back of my throat again
and i'm still pissed about paying twice on toll roads
(a styrofoam ball string-tached to the outside world should i need it)
i echo the motorcycle gesture haphhazardly
steaming plastic cup makes home in hand
hot apple cider, leftover gift from an old friend
it crawls deeply down the wet walls of contraction,
the misty morning enveloping with it's cool-rub friction
mouth sips delicately, eyes drowning centerstage on&in the amber fluid
(where flowers and reflections of bell-curves swim bend)
and my thoughts drift to thinking
I just haven't yet found the right addiction

I am jack's catalyst and monkey wrench

The time is ripe

for planetary alignment and surprise spinal taps

Something in the rustling-leaf-breeze

that builds shadow mountains

in the tectonic cirrus trees

binds my pieces

into gently locking creases

a labyrinth

resembling whole again

if there was anything, i suppose,

that could re-inflate my senses...

it would be the arcanum struck beauty of

(Herbst-Automne-Otone)

the birds are squealing

cylinder wire exchange complaints

back.and.forth.

up.and.down.

vertical tower,

catch and release sound

and I'll admit-

as I sit, steaming and simmering

in chai black and green-

(staring at the loaded aisles in indecisive dismay...

this is one obsession I don't mind admitting)

that instead of thinking

"I don't remember the last time someone bought me flowers

just for the hell of it."

I conclude

Why the hell not?

and now I'm beaming,

contentment emanating,

at the golden sprayed wine bottle covered in EKG evidence

(who will monitor my pulse now?)

now filled with blood-orange dahlias

Pain is weakness leaving the body

but I think weakness can be sexy

and we all need a mouth full of vanilla pudding from time to time.

a question left unanswered

So many souls to wash myself in
I like to get people addicted to truth games
That way, they don't take the little things for granted

Explore, embrace, indulge, expand, inject
Simplify, justify, suppress, question, reject

What a pickle,
yes that's what life is
a fat, juicy pickle
that alternates between filling your mouth with salty, vehement goodness
and squirting you in the eye

consider it
it starts as one entity,
then soaks in an acidic solution,
and becomes something vastly different in quality and taste
i like to think of the obstacles we're faced with as vinegar
fierce in their pungent tartness
could be positive- the lasting changes they manifest
could be terrible

guess it all depends on whether you dig pickles








the answer is love
a single metaphor can give birth to love.

Solitude: sweet absence of faces

When the heart speaks, the mind finds it indecent to object.


bones sinking like stones
all that we've fallen for
all the places we've grown, all of us are done for
we live in a beautiful world.

sweat stained & ribbon tied tidings are blessings in such a time.
strings and bulbs of candy silk hope
Christmas lights that shine in the day heat-time.

i carry it-
your body,
from the freeway.
i cried like my tears would bring you back to me.

the sirens wind, whine, and rope around the musky breeze like white wrought iron.

suddenly is sooner than you think.

accordion mustard yellow dreams
crushed cigarette ashes in the clenched tight gravel
blackberry mate that spills floral backwash onto a tongue
(that's rich and holding tight to longing for the melted ice of someones smile)
I'm sinking into the concrete beside the plastic pink sword of September

waking beside you, I've got a fever and a childish wish for snow
seems like a long, long time since I spun you to this borrowed radio
you pick a place,
that's where I'll be.
time like your cheek has turned for me.

the no parking sign transplanted into the pumping thumper inside of me
keeps me wishing for things that will never be mine.

seems like a long, long time since I've been above you,
seen and loved you

the fan clicks, sticks, and stops ocillating momentarily

love is a dress you make, long to hide your knees
love to say this to your face
"I'll love you only."
from your days and excitement, what will you keep for to wear?
some days drawing you different,
may I be weaved in your hair?
love and some verses you hear, say what you can say
love to say this in your ear
"I'll love you that way."
from your change and contentment, what will you choose for to share?


the pretty punch (light-in the gut) of fake pearl draped lesbians
dragging carcinogens
brings butterflies to this place

and i'm nothing but
chocolate cherry chipped nails,
moist leggings
and a stuffy head full of strange

(the natural, tree-trunk brown roots
peeking from underneath bleached strands of damaged goods)

stone nympths with rabbit heads
water purple ivy beds
(that i only remember as the topping of a dead cat's grave-
pretty Shy, where are you now?)

tis the season

lately
i've been drifting backwards through time, stumbling into puddles of childhood memory
i remember being held in her rocking chair,
her poundcake,
her fancy silver hair and her soft, round face,
i recall hours spent in the secret garden-
running and weaving through the concrete rows of greenery and lavender-pink easter blooms,
hanging from the rusted pale blue metal swingset
sawdust piles in the workshop,
crying to papa when the wasps got in the playhouse

i'm drowning in dreams draped in seasonal decorations
longing for one more chance to bring her crushed ice and poinsettas at Christmas,
zweibac and marzipan kisses
please let me burrow under downy quilts again,
after she has convinced Mommy to let me stay home from school
soupie and sunny side up eggs
Nick Jr. watched all day
(i would rub the thermometer rapidly across my clothed legs,
the friction the source of my nonexistent fever)
couldn't help it if i would rather fill coloring books with her
than learn my math equations

mid yoga-pose,
posion seeping from opening pores
i'm inhaling the pumpkin spice of time
longing to be cradled in those arms in her rocking chair just once more

ghosts of chewing bones on the foot of a bed
when nothing else could grace me with comfort,
i'm crawling into it, finding solace and deep sleep at last
a glowing seashell light, shifting colors in the dark
soap operas, sauerkraut, windchimes on the porch

she called me christineshen,
thick accent wrapping around words
teddy baby is barking at mecci
and i'm digging in the freezer for blue bell vanilla ice cream cups
(baby spoons in silverware drawer for that exact purpose)

it's thanksgiving &
me and sister are laughing hysterically,
watching cartoons, stomach down on the 70s brown carpet in the den
sometimes i think i would gladly give up any body part
if i could just hear her scolding my dumhiding again

the gems of my childhood,
like her mervyn rings
are reflecting slivers of light across my consciousness
tragically beautiful
as i awaken to the sound of my own gasping,
images of china dolls, bronze knickknacks, bright array of housecoats
i can taste the maggi in her mashed potatoes
smell the musky familiarity of hide and seek in the laundry nook

Nana, ich liebe dich.



the holidays are going to be rough.

shedding

Me and the trees alike.

Time for fresh beginnings, eagerly awaited change, the most sensual memories of the year. Can you feel it? Autumn is coming.

A new road, appearing in my vision, beckoning.

I decided it was long past due for me to begin a fresh blog...I haven't been blogging since Europe (although beforehand I had virtually stopped as well), due to some really rough times. For the most part, I felt drained of all inspiration, much of my hope and passion, and as a result, my writing and other outlets of creativity/vitality suffered for some time.

However, as the season shifts outside and all around, I am beginning to sense a shifting inside of me once more, a subterfuge, a churning and kindling in the deepest parts of my core. Maybe it's the beloved first cool front of the year, or the captivating (some fresh, some familiar, some freshly familiar) influences suddenly colliding to create a spectacular commotion in my life. Simple, minute things are tracing route across my skin and finding secret alleys to my mind and spirit.

Thanks to particular people, unknowingly reminding me of the beauty, mystery, and potential (hard to do, in such a cynical world) filling every corner of this elegant-universe, I am finding my way back. Little foot and hand holds to grasp are making themselves known to me; unexpected connections are gasping their way to life within me, stimulating juices and seeds that have been dormant for too long, now.

A friend said to me recently, "The best escape is within ourselves." I found this fiercely truthful and, while so austere, it was very inspiring, and stuck in my mind. Maybe I am beginning to just now beginning to pick up breadcrumbs leading me back to my outlet of escape, a tranquil place that I lost sight of temporarily: myself.

Oh, joy!

that in our embers

is something that doth live,

that nature remembers

what was so fugitive.

I wanted to make a blog separate from my travel blog, because I wanted to keep those memories in a different place from my "every day life" blog. It's just something my intuition told me I had to do. But I will link the two blogs, to make it a little easier. I'll also make a link when I set up a website with my photography.

"At the end of the day, we can endure so much more than we think we can."

Frida Kahlo

"To live is the rarest thing in the world. Most people exist, that is all."
Oscar Wilde

"You must stay drunk on writing so reality cannot destroy you."
Ray Bradbury



























I want you and you are not here. I pause
in this garden, breathing the colour thought is
before language into still air. Even your name
is a pale ghost and, though i exhale it again
and again, it will not stay with me. tonight
I make you up, imagine you, your movements clearer
than the words i have you say you said before.
Wherever you are now, inside my head you fix me
with a look, standing here whilst cool late night
dissolves into the earth. I have got your mouth wrong,
but still it smiles. i hold you closer, miles away,
inventing love, until the calls of nightjars
interrupt and turn what was to come, was certain,
into memory. The stars are filming us for no one.











































Some days his shape in the doorway



Will speak to me



A bird's wing on the window



Sometimes I'll hear him when he's sleeping



His fever dream, a language on his face



I want your flowers like babies want God's love



Or maybe as sure as tomorrow will come



Some days, like rain on the doorstep



He'll cover me with grace in all he offers



Sometimes I'd like just to ask him



What honest words he can't afford to say, like



I want your flowers like babies want God's love



Or maybe as sure as tomorrow will come











There are times that walk from you like some passing afternoon



Autumn cooled the open window of her honeymoon



And she chose a yard to burn but the ground remembers her



Wooden spoons, you can hear her laughing again among the scarlet blooms



There are things that drift away like our endless, numbered days



Summer blew the quilt right off the perfect bed she made



But she's chosen to believe in the hymns her mother sings



Sunday pulls its children from their piles of fallen leaves



[There are sailing ships that pass our bodies in the grass]



A moonbeam calls her back and soothes her 'till she lets things go at last



And she's chosen where to be, though she's lost her wedding ring



Somewhere near her misplaced jar of Bougainvillea seeds



There are things we can't recall, blind as night that finds us all



Winters coming, he tucks her tightly in, kisses her fragile china doll lips



[But my hands remember his, rolling 'round the shaded ferns]



Naked arms, his secrets still like songs I'd never learned



[There are names across the sea, only now I do believe]



Sometimes, with the windows closed, he'll sit and think of her



But she'll mend his tattered clothes and they'll kiss as if they know



What the tenth month of the year will bring them both