Smitten

Yep, it's true
I'm in love with the blue
And the pink and pastels
Float down, my muse

Keep me up late at night
Through the day in a haze
Of doting affection
Let belonging induce

Ripest peach on the tree
I'll claim you, I'll take you
Down the unbeaten path
Reminiscent and new

Yep, it's true

Bleak Days

Here is all that remains of the cosmic splatter

the universal truth, splashed light years ago from 

the violent overflow of messianic rivers, slowed down 

to rust; that sentimental strain but an inconvenient stain 

too mysterious for forensic sleuths, the human brain

to decipher.

Haunches grow tired as they lunch on cheek skin; too

thin to withstand the constant grinding of gears

but strong enough to know 

when to hang on for dearest

Life.

Poor fools do not wonder for there is no wonder

to behold. The sky turned dull, averted grey eyes

stray loose in their skulls, no stars left to guide

and no hiding behind robes; just skin and bones

exposed.

Sizzlin'

"I love you like a fat kid loves cake." --50 Cent

The hamster wheel’s runnin’ day and night

The midnight oil is runnin’ dry

Did I do it well?

Did I say it right?

Can’t wait ‘til tomorrow

Can we do it tonight?

Reel me in for a nibble and

I swear I won’t bite

When you give in a little

I think I might die

Too many cookies in the kitchen and

The stakes are high

The steaks are sizzlin’ and

So am I

Another day, another holler

But somethin’ ain’t right

You threw me a bone

It was a meatless bite

Now the leash is a’tuggin’

And it sure is tight

Dress Up

My closet's full of costumes

I don a new one every day

My big girl pants hang next to

A box of old cliches

A pocket full of sunshine

$weaty glitter on the floor

These boots were made for walking

Camisa negra, mi mejor

But when I'm feeling ugly

And I'm in a shabby mood

I lock the doors and shut the blinds

And wear my birthday suit

Voice Over

I'm tired of sadgirl songs

Sung by showbiz boys

Social Commentary

I

People seem to prefer to stay in unpleasant situations rather than find solutions to make them better. I, for instance, like to put empty ice trays back in the freezer so that when I need ice--and there is none-- I am reminded of what an inconsiderate asshole I am.

II

I never wash the sheets so that I never have to sleep alone.

III

I met a new group of about fifteen women today. (I wanted to call them girls just now. But I called them women instead, on principle. When I was a kid I refused to call women women because I thought woman was a dirty word like bitch or whore. It wasn't until I was a teenager and technically a woman myself that I got over it and stopped calling everyone a lady or a girl.) Anyway, these women were all sitting around talking about laser hair removal as if it were as common as brushing one's teeth. They had all had some work done. It struck me as odd. I guess if I don't know what to talk about in a group of female strangers, I'll just casually mention my pubic hair.

Incoming

Seems unromantic to journal online... at least the unpublished kind. Soft kisses, near misses, ugly dreams, high hopes-- buzzing away in some dry, stuffy, fluorescent-lit linoleum 0101101001011100 purgatory until you log back on. What if you forget your password? If you lost an analog journal, at least some unsuspecting stranger could find it underneath a table at a coffee shop and spend an hour or two secretly commiserating, then wondering for the rest of their lives if they will ever meet you or if they already know you or what they would say if they did ever meet you. Or at least a loved one could find it on your bedside table after your untimely rock climbing death and sob loudly while poring over your identity struggles and inability to find a proper bathroom rug to match that sensible mauve shower curtain.

There's a redwood tree in California that I've never seen, yet there it rests--waiting patiently for me to run my hands along its deep ridges and mossy scabs. My clothes hang suspended in the closet, uncaring if I wear them. There is a dress that was once worn by a woman who is dead. I never knew her but her niece dropped off eight trash bags of clothes at the Goodwill donation center three years ago. I paid $6.99 for it. That's a pretty good deal.

My amygdala is sleeping. It has grown weary of connecting place and time and purpose and custom. I don't blame it. I hope I am not forced to find a wormhole. I hear the feedback is a killer.

I-27

I want to be a highway when I die
Not in the next life
But in the one you live now
My bones, white washed by sun
Massaged by pick-up trucks
Will strong and steady hold you up
And guide you on your way
I want to be a highway when I die

The Past Is In Our Presence

I

Nostalgia rests in dusty places,

Patient

Slow

Unwavered.

It faithfully waits for years--

a lifetime--

For you to make a move.

II 

If we are two separate people,

Save little DNA,

How do I see your face in mine

More every passing day?

Down to Business

I'm coming to terms with my villainess

In a contractual agreement that specifically lists

The times and places she may rear her head

And show her teeth and beg to be fed

And stare me down with those puppy dog pupils

And trap me in her endless loopholes.

"You shall stay in your chamber on Sunday and Saturday;

I shall let you commence on Tuesday and Monday.

Make room in the bed when you hear my call;

We shall stay in all day and watch the rain fall."

Faithful Rider

Twice a day for thirteen years
No skip, no shirk, no sigh
7:35 and 5:05 repeating
Rusty crusty toothy grill
Squeaking squealing round and round
It chews her up and spits her out
While judgments drive on by

Digging Deep

my dreams like dogs sniff out fertile ground
and dig up the earth to fill this gap
they caught the scent of your sweet smelling breath
on the canned food aisle
not yellow and bright like a first corn harvest
but blue and cold like the moon

just a one-time thing
that just happened
inert
not propelling with meaning
adults make choices
to control the world around them
but are inept to control the world within them

as sure as early spring
calls back the leaves too quickly
I wrapped you up like a stubbled baby
in my arms, displaced from real life
in the wholehearted moment
for fear of impending storms
I burrowed in the lie

Hollywood

The sidewalk name drops
The lives we collect
One glossy page and
Camera frame at
a time; they carry on,
Dancing With the Stars,
Flickering night walls
From some far away,
Removable state.
Memorabilialand:
The purest figment
Of the collective
Imagination.

No Rest

An ache of 27 years
Is twisting through the night
And I can't change the way I am
To make it all all right
And If I knew what's good for you
I'd have done it all my life
Instead I'll twist on through this sleepless night

A mansion of a thousand doors
That lead from room to room
No hallways and no photographs
They all lead back to you
If I could find my way outside
My real life could resume
Instead I'm stuck between the black and blue

Love: A Sticky Subject

Love is confusing. 


Agape
Pie
It's so simple
Not complicated at all
It never says goodbye
Or anything at all

Philia
A slice of pie can pack a punch
And ruin even a large man's lunch
And though it won't hug
Or smooch on your mug
You might find true love at first munch

Eros
I would simply be over-the-mooner
If I'd found your sweetness much sooner
No need to pretend
We are more than just friends
We can go to my place for a nooner