Monday, October 1, 2001

Horrid This Happiness

How horrid this happiness
which should steal my words
rob me of contemplation
and hide all my pens
during moments of inspiration.

I don’t know.
sometimes, other times,
I do.

Carried away in the summer wind­
make no mistake, this is no breeze,
bown away with
the tiny blue and yellow spring flowers,
the fresh rain dirt scent of purity,
the sunny park day Frisbee dogs of joy,

I would rather not leave him without my wallet,
I would rather not forget my name,
I would rather not be pen-less
but I’ve been on fire kissing
my wounds away
and this I will not trade for words,
but I would not ask
my words to leave.


One step, shed.
The curtains undulate,
the pink sunset clouds
of the light reflected
illuminate my sky wall.
It’s dark. It’s Saturday afternoon.
One step, shed, kiss,
pull away.
I know it’s not force,
it doesn’t feel like force
I’m reacting like it might as well be

One step, shed, peel,
pull away.
These layers seem endless.
I’m losing sight of my core
between sobbing fits.

The week before
I cried so much
I broke my nose ring.

One, two steps, shed,
peel, pull, raw.
Who, you and I, are,
two and three.

I’ve been sleeping
with my tongue pressed
against my teeth
and although I’m healing
and everything is going to be fine
I’m sleeping with my tongue
pressed against my teeth.

You help me undress
and, three step,
hold me through the nightmares,
and two step, tell me that
you love me and,
one step, I know
you are not going away.

Wednesday, September 12, 2001

Thousands Slipped Through Time

thousands slipped
through time.

Cascade of ashes
drizzled the color of death
in slow motion.
Thousands slipped
through time,
millions watched
in horror.

Slowly and easily,
the poison seeped,
we sat still through the drone
of news reports,
I sat still in shock.

Slow and and an easy
life, a commodity,
freedom, just in time,
as thousands slipped through
time as time
slipped through millions.

Monday, June 4, 2001

Coffee, Lover, Pen and Paper

Filtered fog light feeling
ok, more than that,
better than
ok, better than the average bear.

Lover, coffee, pen & paper feeling
calm, more than that,
he tickles my left sock-less foot
and turns the pages.

Swallowing coffee sound clock tick-toc sounds,
a sneeze in the green room feeling,
stretching body tingle, more than that,
feet curled under
I’m still aware of time,
I’m still aware of work clothes.

Where are the morning cats?
bastards, and even more than that,
my furry kids, I love them,
one usually sits between us
and spends most of his time shifting,
the other keeps suspicious eyes watching.

There, almost an hour of feeling
peace, more than that,
better than,
ok, happier than the average bear.

Sunday, June 3, 2001

Bus Stop Woes

On the verge of tears
I don't know why
I seem to have lost my edge
but not my venom.

Two gay men are
sitting next to me
talking and both picking linto
off one’s jacket,

men friends,
and the girl crossing the street
doesn’t seem convinced
that the bus won't hit her.

I, too, have the eyes of someone
not yet convinced, not yet.
My mother warned me
about running with scissors,
she never mentioned
running with fears.

I try to dance with Madonna
in my mind but my chest is tight.
It could be the dampness
hanging halfway through the skyscrapers
with “v” shapes everywhere,
it could be this city,
It could be me.
I cling to my bag, my portable player,
my bus transfer,
and my breath.

We stop.

Somehow, in some fashion
which I have yet to understand,
I am walking and I start to feel it,
being alive, being happy,
being in love and I stand
accused of glowing
on only five hours of rest
and a pair of aching lungs.

in some fashion
which I have yet

to understand.

Saturday, June 2, 2001


standing in doorways,
men too,

When you touched me
you went through me.

Secret breath kiss,
envelop me.

Night bed times
so close we melt,
so close
we melt and the room gets hot,
I can’t think, and I get thirsty.
The timber of your voice
through my bones
lulls me, I am cradled in bliss,
I purr.

We sculpt the only thing,
what we are about to
become, the only thing.

I am superstitious, I am
rebellious, I am neurotic,
I am falling and I am true.
This is the best idea,
this whole thing about me
and you.

When I am beautiful
I am a reflection of you.

When you touch me
you flow through me.

Friday, June 1, 2001

Chocolate Milk Summer

You won’t even know
all the stuff I don’t say,
all the stuff I keep inside,
all the ways that the words don’t come out.
all the ways that I savor you
like chocolate milk.

I want my mouth on you
I want to feel your breath near my lips
I want your hands around
my skinny muscular arms
I want to surrender to you
in the same way that I fight everything else.
I have a craving for you,
like chocolate milk.

When I read your letters
I get drunk on you
high on you
into you.
I drink you body and soul,
like chocolate milk.

It’s lonely here
the temperature seems fake,
I’m not used to it,
the window is wide open
and the ocean sounds of the highway cars
are not city sounds,
not country sounds,
nor anything like you.

The clock radio is lying about the time
and the songs are faint and I don’t know
any of them.
I’ve left my clothes in piles
cans of peas and corn and lima beans

I miss you, I miss being home,
I only use up a third of the bed when I sleep.
I went grocery shopping in a small town
and bought chocolate milk.