The Tour d'Eiffel
the instant-crepes on street corners
the flamboyancy of ridiculously well-dressed men with
Sharp edges to their jaws
-straight, nonetheless.
The tiny legs of French women
the smolder of Parisians lighting the cigarettes
and pressing virgin-white cylinders
to blood-red lips;
Sacrifice at the altar to the temple of seduction,
the utterer of pouting vowels,
the articulator of irresistible romance;
Their Mouth.
Paris whispers to me, in well-rounded, warm-toned
words,
“Chantais pour-moi”
And as my lips form a kiss to reply,
“Oui”...
I am stuck in Zurich, Switzerland at 5:30AM in the morning
Screwed over by the French beauracracy of seat-reservations
No Standing Room here!
My last hurrah jaunt to Paris has been halted,
and I am trapped in Zurich, the prison of
“I-slept-on-a-train-last-night jetlag”
and “I-can't-eat-your-schnitzel” hunger 'cuz I'm a vegetarian.
17 phone-calls later, I'm
on a train to Basel.
In Basel, I ask in three imperfectly-articulated languages,
“Where can I go to eat?”
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
Sunday April Evening in Vienna -old poem
Summer Sunday Evening in Vienna
It's 8:30 barely...on a Sunday evening in Vienna.
The sky, light blue, fades into night.
The trees have been tousled around by the wind
but a stillness has come over them
and it's gentle-blowing now.
Abrubt as sleep to heavy bodies,
clouds veil the sky in darkness.
You can feel the heaviness in the air.
Little, faraway, rolling claps of thunder
pump the blood through your softly beating heart.
Barely audible for at least an hour, you've wondered
if it was imagination, fear...Until
Now! -Crash!- when a flash of lightning flickers in the corner of your eye,
catching your attention
Given the next few ticks of a clock, on a hot and sunny day that chaperoned a warm weekend,
the clouds have had enough;
They break open with rain.
Rain that comes gentle at first,
pitter patters.
I rise to close the windows, smell the air, rejuvenating,
cleansingthe stone-city below.
I feel the sky 'release' its cloud-knotted tension,
begin its barrage, celestial floodgates thrown open.
It's raining harder and harder...
then SMACK!
thwack! smack! CRACK!
upon dizzy, shuddering rooftops.
The sound of hard, white, crystalline orbs colliding with windows,
exploding in vain attempts to cover the city in white, they melt down the sides of buildings,
of steeples of churches.
“Will it will break?” I wonder. The clatter and crash, the soon-to-be shattered windows,
my thoughts manifest as hand-sized hailballs are
smack smack cracking, throwing their forces into second wave, third,
the army is
hitting the ground
turning to slush
and rinsed away...
Melted by the coming rain.
The trees leaves, softly audible, dance in the howling wind
The lightning becomes only an accepted and expected effect, the strobe-light flashing in the dance-club of this Summer-storm
The thunder is on the level of your heartbeat, of your excitement, of your natural involvement with this miniphenomena of earth
The hail stops
The rain lessens
The sky darkens, a few lightning bolts still flash over the last pink patch of fade-to-blue sky
Into the night-hours, the thunder remains
loudly humming to the electric air,
the only reminder that nature so ceaseless, restless and waiting.
is dangerously calling.
It's 8:30 barely...on a Sunday evening in Vienna.
The sky, light blue, fades into night.
The trees have been tousled around by the wind
but a stillness has come over them
and it's gentle-blowing now.
Abrubt as sleep to heavy bodies,
clouds veil the sky in darkness.
You can feel the heaviness in the air.
Little, faraway, rolling claps of thunder
pump the blood through your softly beating heart.
Barely audible for at least an hour, you've wondered
if it was imagination, fear...Until
Now! -Crash!- when a flash of lightning flickers in the corner of your eye,
catching your attention
Given the next few ticks of a clock, on a hot and sunny day that chaperoned a warm weekend,
the clouds have had enough;
They break open with rain.
Rain that comes gentle at first,
pitter patters.
I rise to close the windows, smell the air, rejuvenating,
cleansingthe stone-city below.
I feel the sky 'release' its cloud-knotted tension,
begin its barrage, celestial floodgates thrown open.
It's raining harder and harder...
then SMACK!
thwack! smack! CRACK!
upon dizzy, shuddering rooftops.
The sound of hard, white, crystalline orbs colliding with windows,
exploding in vain attempts to cover the city in white, they melt down the sides of buildings,
of steeples of churches.
“Will it will break?” I wonder. The clatter and crash, the soon-to-be shattered windows,
my thoughts manifest as hand-sized hailballs are
smack smack cracking, throwing their forces into second wave, third,
the army is
hitting the ground
turning to slush
and rinsed away...
Melted by the coming rain.
The trees leaves, softly audible, dance in the howling wind
The lightning becomes only an accepted and expected effect, the strobe-light flashing in the dance-club of this Summer-storm
The thunder is on the level of your heartbeat, of your excitement, of your natural involvement with this miniphenomena of earth
The hail stops
The rain lessens
The sky darkens, a few lightning bolts still flash over the last pink patch of fade-to-blue sky
Into the night-hours, the thunder remains
loudly humming to the electric air,
the only reminder that nature so ceaseless, restless and waiting.
is dangerously calling.
In The Upper Bedroom of A Vermont Country-House -poem
In the quiet hours of my solitude
the wind whispers upon the orange leaves
of a crisp, clear Fall in Vermont.
beyond this room
mother has woken her children of the night
who scramble upon the algae-covered stones
down the climbing hill
beside the breathing river
veining its glorious crystal life
through the forest
She does not provoke me to sleep.
The open-eyed moon
spotlights my face
beckons the light in my eyes.
The third story
of this house
reminds me no less of home
where I am distant
from the people there
as I am
5,400 miles away.
When eyes are shut
the pulse of the river is heard
It speaks to my blood
I feel still
frozen as glass
and languid
caught breathless in my hope
to hear the sound of silence
of my creator
whom I civilized myself from.
Forgetting the life on an L.A. city-dweller
one can embrace themselves
without consenting time
for its fee.
The air lends me crisp clarity
the boughs of the tree,
forgiveness.
My will is not desiring
to find means
to fill the space
with clutter.
Here
I am closer to the heart of the world
far more connected to the ones I love
than in the condensed mechanical streets of L.A.
and I find myself
for once
standing still.
the wind whispers upon the orange leaves
of a crisp, clear Fall in Vermont.
beyond this room
mother has woken her children of the night
who scramble upon the algae-covered stones
down the climbing hill
beside the breathing river
veining its glorious crystal life
through the forest
She does not provoke me to sleep.
The open-eyed moon
spotlights my face
beckons the light in my eyes.
The third story
of this house
reminds me no less of home
where I am distant
from the people there
as I am
5,400 miles away.
When eyes are shut
the pulse of the river is heard
It speaks to my blood
I feel still
frozen as glass
and languid
caught breathless in my hope
to hear the sound of silence
of my creator
whom I civilized myself from.
Forgetting the life on an L.A. city-dweller
one can embrace themselves
without consenting time
for its fee.
The air lends me crisp clarity
the boughs of the tree,
forgiveness.
My will is not desiring
to find means
to fill the space
with clutter.
Here
I am closer to the heart of the world
far more connected to the ones I love
than in the condensed mechanical streets of L.A.
and I find myself
for once
standing still.
The Ghoul Inside -poem
I see it. Those eyes, that
stare.
I see the features floating in the dark.
Blood and spit
all those things dreamt up
formulated in a groan.
Sk-grwich! It grumbles
low in my belly.
It knows I hear it
can feel my insides making room
for another mouth
to bite at flesh
and cry into the dark.
Thump-ha-thump-th-thump-ha
thamp-th-thump-ha
muscles tighten in my throat
the pillow is kind enough
to gag me.
But I can't reach inside
to rip it out.
Can't starve my body
to create a corpse
to throw out the barbarian
seed
that grows off my roots
and chokes them.
Poison, colored pink and green
tumbles far into the dark
the curves of my body push
in and out and down
tensing to escape
what mistake I made
in looking the beast in the eye.
Density of spirit
Salt-soaked cotton
buries my open mouth.
The ghost is screaming
and grasping
the fragile walls of my world.
Eyes glowing, mouth locking,
the belly has had enough.
With an expulsion of blood
I dispel
and the stains 'cross my cheeks
burn into my skin.
stare.
I see the features floating in the dark.
Blood and spit
all those things dreamt up
formulated in a groan.
Sk-grwich! It grumbles
low in my belly.
It knows I hear it
can feel my insides making room
for another mouth
to bite at flesh
and cry into the dark.
Thump-ha-thump-th-thump-ha
thamp-th-thump-ha
muscles tighten in my throat
the pillow is kind enough
to gag me.
But I can't reach inside
to rip it out.
Can't starve my body
to create a corpse
to throw out the barbarian
seed
that grows off my roots
and chokes them.
Poison, colored pink and green
tumbles far into the dark
the curves of my body push
in and out and down
tensing to escape
what mistake I made
in looking the beast in the eye.
Density of spirit
Salt-soaked cotton
buries my open mouth.
The ghost is screaming
and grasping
the fragile walls of my world.
Eyes glowing, mouth locking,
the belly has had enough.
With an expulsion of blood
I dispel
and the stains 'cross my cheeks
burn into my skin.
The Answers To Your Questions- poem
Because we are leaving.
Because the light doesn't shine
at the same time
on the other side of the continent.
The week went too fast and too deep.
American girls don't know how to use the word love.
He believes our culture is crazy.
Because the salt in the ocean has
stained our skin
and because I can't resist licking it off
He squirms and smiles.
Because this is holiday
and we grow darker each day the sun tints our bodies
the color of lazy, summer love.
Each time I doubt he loves me
he turns to me with those eyes
-centuries old-
or slides his hands around my waist from behind
to nuzzle my neck and kiss my ear.
Because I don't think about his love
when I feel his eyes
and meet destiny in his glance.
Because your media is German
and you sing Californication.
Because Long Beach has a dirty ocean
and Germany has a clean Lake Constance.
And Europeans still believe in romance
and Europeans recognize romance
and he touches me nose-to-nose
kisses me, eyes closed, slow tongue and full lip
under a moonlit sky
while cradling my neck in his palm
and entwining his fingers in the tufts of my
red hair.
Because I'd never seen genuine beauty
in a boy -ever.
Because we meditate together,
he's unashamed of bad habits,
he teaches me dirty Oktoberfest songs,
because he shares,
and he asks me to have conversations.
Because he asks
and because he speaks.
Because 99% in love
is still more than I'd ever experienced before.
Because I let him in.
He likes to shop with me.
He is the best lover I've ever had.
Because he looks me in the eye.
Because dwelling on the future or the past
does no good for the present.
The price of gold is going up
but he wears a bangle
and the hemp bracelet I made him.
Because the music of Yann Tiersen breaks my heart.
Opportunity knocked on my door
and I let it in to dance with for a while
because I made a wish
a thousand times
and each time it grew
until
I wrote it down
cast it to the winds
and he was what returned to me.
Because I needed to learn how to love.
Because I speak german with a french accent.
Because saying 'I love you' after a week
is crazy
naiive
or predestined.
Because I'm included in his thoughts.
His tongue is long
and his kisses taste smoother when he drinks tequila.
Because Red Hot Chili Peppers
made Californians cool.
Because it is hard to say goodbye
so we speak in tongues
and languages
foreign, forgotten and ancient
as our hearts beat out flashing signals
because there's only one day left
and a cafe is friendly
and I can't help but laugh
because
to be sad on our last day
would lose it forever.
Because I would wait to lick the sweat
from his chest a year, 'til he returns.
Because I siezed the days we had together,
peaceful in Encinitas,
we can walk
barefoot in the streets
at night.
There are fish in the sea
and crabs in the sand
and we feel alive
and natural.
Seasalt is coating our bodies.
Because we aren't home
but we belong.
Because we don't always say words
and a part of my consciousness
understands what he says in german.
Because we feed eachother cheesecake
in a hookahbar
with tribal lounge music
good friends, atmosphere,
when we're only seventeen
and very aged.
Because 'kinky' sounds funny to say.
Because we found the winning position.
Because I'm moving to Europe for my own life to continue.
I may find him there
but I won't follow him;
I will only love him as deeply as I can.
Because we don't distance ourselves;
miles will do that for us.
I believe in strong connections.
I'm not overanalyzing,
I'm just letting be.
Because the check-list has been filled with no exception,
and the risk of falling in love is nothing
compared to the love itself.
A year goes by fast.
The future is undetermined.
Right now is 'wunderbar'.
I listen to the wind.
'Coincidence' is an excuse -not
an explanation.
Because I'm not looking a gift-horse in the mouth.
Because the mouth would still be beautiful.
Because we must leave,
though, I'll never lose this place
and tomorrow I'll still smile,
next year is not too soon.
Sensual was explained to me
by use of fingertips.
Because I love you
and I'll never forget.
Because the light doesn't shine
at the same time
on the other side of the continent.
The week went too fast and too deep.
American girls don't know how to use the word love.
He believes our culture is crazy.
Because the salt in the ocean has
stained our skin
and because I can't resist licking it off
He squirms and smiles.
Because this is holiday
and we grow darker each day the sun tints our bodies
the color of lazy, summer love.
Each time I doubt he loves me
he turns to me with those eyes
-centuries old-
or slides his hands around my waist from behind
to nuzzle my neck and kiss my ear.
Because I don't think about his love
when I feel his eyes
and meet destiny in his glance.
Because your media is German
and you sing Californication.
Because Long Beach has a dirty ocean
and Germany has a clean Lake Constance.
And Europeans still believe in romance
and Europeans recognize romance
and he touches me nose-to-nose
kisses me, eyes closed, slow tongue and full lip
under a moonlit sky
while cradling my neck in his palm
and entwining his fingers in the tufts of my
red hair.
Because I'd never seen genuine beauty
in a boy -ever.
Because we meditate together,
he's unashamed of bad habits,
he teaches me dirty Oktoberfest songs,
because he shares,
and he asks me to have conversations.
Because he asks
and because he speaks.
Because 99% in love
is still more than I'd ever experienced before.
Because I let him in.
He likes to shop with me.
He is the best lover I've ever had.
Because he looks me in the eye.
Because dwelling on the future or the past
does no good for the present.
The price of gold is going up
but he wears a bangle
and the hemp bracelet I made him.
Because the music of Yann Tiersen breaks my heart.
Opportunity knocked on my door
and I let it in to dance with for a while
because I made a wish
a thousand times
and each time it grew
until
I wrote it down
cast it to the winds
and he was what returned to me.
Because I needed to learn how to love.
Because I speak german with a french accent.
Because saying 'I love you' after a week
is crazy
naiive
or predestined.
Because I'm included in his thoughts.
His tongue is long
and his kisses taste smoother when he drinks tequila.
Because Red Hot Chili Peppers
made Californians cool.
Because it is hard to say goodbye
so we speak in tongues
and languages
foreign, forgotten and ancient
as our hearts beat out flashing signals
because there's only one day left
and a cafe is friendly
and I can't help but laugh
because
to be sad on our last day
would lose it forever.
Because I would wait to lick the sweat
from his chest a year, 'til he returns.
Because I siezed the days we had together,
peaceful in Encinitas,
we can walk
barefoot in the streets
at night.
There are fish in the sea
and crabs in the sand
and we feel alive
and natural.
Seasalt is coating our bodies.
Because we aren't home
but we belong.
Because we don't always say words
and a part of my consciousness
understands what he says in german.
Because we feed eachother cheesecake
in a hookahbar
with tribal lounge music
good friends, atmosphere,
when we're only seventeen
and very aged.
Because 'kinky' sounds funny to say.
Because we found the winning position.
Because I'm moving to Europe for my own life to continue.
I may find him there
but I won't follow him;
I will only love him as deeply as I can.
Because we don't distance ourselves;
miles will do that for us.
I believe in strong connections.
I'm not overanalyzing,
I'm just letting be.
Because the check-list has been filled with no exception,
and the risk of falling in love is nothing
compared to the love itself.
A year goes by fast.
The future is undetermined.
Right now is 'wunderbar'.
I listen to the wind.
'Coincidence' is an excuse -not
an explanation.
Because I'm not looking a gift-horse in the mouth.
Because the mouth would still be beautiful.
Because we must leave,
though, I'll never lose this place
and tomorrow I'll still smile,
next year is not too soon.
Sensual was explained to me
by use of fingertips.
Because I love you
and I'll never forget.
The American Dream, The American Dreamers -poem
The American Dream, The American Dreamers
words dropped
from radios
and carved into computer drives.
The old speeches, past passion, derisive conditions
subjective and prominent.
echoes of Martin Luther King Jr., Kennedy's Address,
the cries of a country. Peace, Ghandi, freedom, equality.
Pain and hatred.
The great rise, the great fall.
New time passes, jaded and full
with fat under skin
under powder under fashion-design.
A reconstruction of image.
The power of speed, inflection of society,
the stress of parents to raise their children
with abundance material,
and casual ignorance of heart.
Stunning bling. Abundance of of sex, money, drugs.
Drive of desire. The stimulation of constant sound.
Speed, cars and fame; the pace of the country.
The heart-attack smacks
into all-time high
consumer-rates.
The illusion of “living it up”.
Individuality reprocessed and manufactured; Identity
a marketing tool from those with botox-smiles.
Smothered whispers of
a heart
answered with valium,
lipitor, depression medication.
Be careful not to frown, or they'll
pin you down in garments of white.
The TV blairs, shines
a light on our imperfections.
Suddenly we're aware
that we are not the man on the television.
Our identity changed. Our mind rearranged,
forget our born-identity;
buy another.
Our democracy established by E-Hollywood,
debating which icon to mimick or mock.
Our innerworld pulled into anarchy,
but we're distracted from it's governing.
The city-lights are charming and
while the rest of the world is pulling puppet-strings,
we go out each night,
our mind upon the dresser table, our
heart kept in a safe,
our lips stuck in plastic smiles,
forgetting what to say beyond the lines
and stage-cues given,
or that our hearts and minds could speak.
words dropped
from radios
and carved into computer drives.
The old speeches, past passion, derisive conditions
subjective and prominent.
echoes of Martin Luther King Jr., Kennedy's Address,
the cries of a country. Peace, Ghandi, freedom, equality.
Pain and hatred.
The great rise, the great fall.
New time passes, jaded and full
with fat under skin
under powder under fashion-design.
A reconstruction of image.
The power of speed, inflection of society,
the stress of parents to raise their children
with abundance material,
and casual ignorance of heart.
Stunning bling. Abundance of of sex, money, drugs.
Drive of desire. The stimulation of constant sound.
Speed, cars and fame; the pace of the country.
The heart-attack smacks
into all-time high
consumer-rates.
The illusion of “living it up”.
Individuality reprocessed and manufactured; Identity
a marketing tool from those with botox-smiles.
Smothered whispers of
a heart
answered with valium,
lipitor, depression medication.
Be careful not to frown, or they'll
pin you down in garments of white.
The TV blairs, shines
a light on our imperfections.
Suddenly we're aware
that we are not the man on the television.
Our identity changed. Our mind rearranged,
forget our born-identity;
buy another.
Our democracy established by E-Hollywood,
debating which icon to mimick or mock.
Our innerworld pulled into anarchy,
but we're distracted from it's governing.
The city-lights are charming and
while the rest of the world is pulling puppet-strings,
we go out each night,
our mind upon the dresser table, our
heart kept in a safe,
our lips stuck in plastic smiles,
forgetting what to say beyond the lines
and stage-cues given,
or that our hearts and minds could speak.
Taste of Long Beach -poem
Taste of Long Beach
is the rhythm of rap
a steady
harsh drumbeat to break
words in pieces.
bass so loud it deafens reality,
rumbling cars,
loves that beat
their wings against culture.
dances like
fighting, pop-locking,
crypt-walking,
throwin' up signs
of loyalty and hatred.
Justifications
long forgotten.
The feel of a glock
pointed,
pressed against
your
sweating
temple.
The pull of a trigger-
the cry of mistakes
-the expulsion of anger
-embrace of pain.
The streets have tasted blood.
The streets that curve into underground
rebuilt and torn down
like the culture
like each child as
they grow up.
cheek to cheek
between the covers, no heat
or tender hearts.
the taste of hard.
Closed doors.
Faces rubbed against pavement.
Callouses created
in the heart.
Faces, unflinching
and tears tattooed
on skin.
Gangstaz walk in strides,
their legs bent,
hand gripped to the belt,
head tilt, chest out,
fist clench and
lips pushed
out.
Walking to force others
back.
Chest puffed forward
ready to break walls.
Toughness idolized.
Excessive
attributes.
More guns, more booze,
more sluts, more hits,
more money, more kills,
more desensitization than
any other generation
has experienced.
Too hard to melt
tears to liquid jewels
across their face.
Pacific Sea
replacing that need
for release.
The Wind brushes through Her
peoples hair
calling
them back to the waters side.
The Ocean washes them into Her shores.
Couples lost in buzzed amorification.
Alcohol
part of blood
weed
layered into skin.
The salt is grinding in.
CRASH the ocean
waves are sweeping
us into moonlit waters and
out of the unforgiving sun.
the Wind moans
into the night
tying hair into knots
and untying tensions,
kissing cheeks
and beating back the day.
Night comes rolling in
with the sea,
tide breathing
in and out
-and with each breath
it pulls you under.
And they scream into the night
"Grow up!" "Don't cry!"
"Fuck her!" "Put out."
sex and drugs
and violence.
It makes you a man.
It makes her accomplished.
Power
still
unbalanced.
Not between the sexes,
between the bedsheets;
between the cultures;
Between their hearts,
compromising life
for accepted strength,
power,
stereotype.
And someone cries
"The war out there...started with the war in here."
is the rhythm of rap
a steady
harsh drumbeat to break
words in pieces.
bass so loud it deafens reality,
rumbling cars,
loves that beat
their wings against culture.
dances like
fighting, pop-locking,
crypt-walking,
throwin' up signs
of loyalty and hatred.
Justifications
long forgotten.
The feel of a glock
pointed,
pressed against
your
sweating
temple.
The pull of a trigger-
the cry of mistakes
-the expulsion of anger
-embrace of pain.
The streets have tasted blood.
The streets that curve into underground
rebuilt and torn down
like the culture
like each child as
they grow up.
cheek to cheek
between the covers, no heat
or tender hearts.
the taste of hard.
Closed doors.
Faces rubbed against pavement.
Callouses created
in the heart.
Faces, unflinching
and tears tattooed
on skin.
Gangstaz walk in strides,
their legs bent,
hand gripped to the belt,
head tilt, chest out,
fist clench and
lips pushed
out.
Walking to force others
back.
Chest puffed forward
ready to break walls.
Toughness idolized.
Excessive
attributes.
More guns, more booze,
more sluts, more hits,
more money, more kills,
more desensitization than
any other generation
has experienced.
Too hard to melt
tears to liquid jewels
across their face.
Pacific Sea
replacing that need
for release.
The Wind brushes through Her
peoples hair
calling
them back to the waters side.
The Ocean washes them into Her shores.
Couples lost in buzzed amorification.
Alcohol
part of blood
weed
layered into skin.
The salt is grinding in.
CRASH the ocean
waves are sweeping
us into moonlit waters and
out of the unforgiving sun.
the Wind moans
into the night
tying hair into knots
and untying tensions,
kissing cheeks
and beating back the day.
Night comes rolling in
with the sea,
tide breathing
in and out
-and with each breath
it pulls you under.
And they scream into the night
"Grow up!" "Don't cry!"
"Fuck her!" "Put out."
sex and drugs
and violence.
It makes you a man.
It makes her accomplished.
Power
still
unbalanced.
Not between the sexes,
between the bedsheets;
between the cultures;
Between their hearts,
compromising life
for accepted strength,
power,
stereotype.
And someone cries
"The war out there...started with the war in here."
Swan of Bliss -poem
It's been a year
since we have congregated here;
I feel your world
with a stronger heart.
The aged sage
come into me
the bells lightly bursting;
a spiritual clanging
to wake the devotional feet
of my mind.
I have come
with laughing eyes
to greet you in our meeting.
Each embrace,
a pouncing love
to break
casual defences.
We are love.
He walks and talks
and springs within
the bouncing curls
and broken teeth.
The pieces of the world
are touching fingertips in passing
pranayams,
in meditation.
A flowered blessing,
open petals.
Take the fragrance,
let it saturate your
hearts;
hardened, calloused and abused
but still beating.
Breathing in
and breathing out,
reverberating.
I can sense the angels singing
in your gaze
which is twinkling;
A galaxy of us
within your eyes,
undying.
Imperfect
shattered pieces
ark, and smoldering.
Necks craned back
and searching.
Piercing tongues accustomed to screaming;
Hands
clenching in struggle
gripping regret;
a heavy knot in each our shoulders
Us
a perfect collage of beauty.
We have not lost our devotion.
Our eyes are breaking
from the mask
and only one Eye does
creep open
to the burning light
that's searing
away beloved shadow,
alighting flame to our crystal tears,
evaporating all our precious sorrow.
Can you see the forests burst into flame?
A place of Earth
collapsing back into its womb.
In the wake of its destruction
it has no thought to shed its tears
it simply cries
and the flames engulf
the leaves whispering and flying.
The ground is lain before us
the uncomplicated horizon,
unobscured,
the sun arises.
since we have congregated here;
I feel your world
with a stronger heart.
The aged sage
come into me
the bells lightly bursting;
a spiritual clanging
to wake the devotional feet
of my mind.
I have come
with laughing eyes
to greet you in our meeting.
Each embrace,
a pouncing love
to break
casual defences.
We are love.
He walks and talks
and springs within
the bouncing curls
and broken teeth.
The pieces of the world
are touching fingertips in passing
pranayams,
in meditation.
A flowered blessing,
open petals.
Take the fragrance,
let it saturate your
hearts;
hardened, calloused and abused
but still beating.
Breathing in
and breathing out,
reverberating.
I can sense the angels singing
in your gaze
which is twinkling;
A galaxy of us
within your eyes,
undying.
Imperfect
shattered pieces
ark, and smoldering.
Necks craned back
and searching.
Piercing tongues accustomed to screaming;
Hands
clenching in struggle
gripping regret;
a heavy knot in each our shoulders
Us
a perfect collage of beauty.
We have not lost our devotion.
Our eyes are breaking
from the mask
and only one Eye does
creep open
to the burning light
that's searing
away beloved shadow,
alighting flame to our crystal tears,
evaporating all our precious sorrow.
Can you see the forests burst into flame?
A place of Earth
collapsing back into its womb.
In the wake of its destruction
it has no thought to shed its tears
it simply cries
and the flames engulf
the leaves whispering and flying.
The ground is lain before us
the uncomplicated horizon,
unobscured,
the sun arises.
The Streets of France Ablaze -poem (political)
The streets are ablaze in France
with oil and the blood of citizens.
And no one seems to care,
in the midst of a war
-no one knows what for.
Hearts are filled with shame
Hatred in God's name
but as time passes, we forget the masses.
-And kick back, let loose!
Nothing affects US (land of the powerful)
Powerfully ignorant
of the world around us.
We're dancing, singing, and drinking away
Tragedy's great reason to distract,
make merry.
Complain about prices,
the daily rising
rate of oil.
The yearly rising
rate of deaths.
“BRING THE SOLDIERS HOME!”
You've heard that one before
Bumper-stickers, galore.
But without a plan, without 'the' man
to do the job -it's too late to be clean-
but a clean political snip -like cutting
political life-support-
is what we want
but this argument's so old, it's
become a haunt.
The streets of Paris are screaming.
suddenly, the little things big countries do
set a push to the domino-effect
we all come tumbling down.
The anger
the rage
of people mistreated
simple words twisted.
Did we really just
“miss” it?
with oil and the blood of citizens.
And no one seems to care,
in the midst of a war
-no one knows what for.
Hearts are filled with shame
Hatred in God's name
but as time passes, we forget the masses.
-And kick back, let loose!
Nothing affects US (land of the powerful)
Powerfully ignorant
of the world around us.
We're dancing, singing, and drinking away
Tragedy's great reason to distract,
make merry.
Complain about prices,
the daily rising
rate of oil.
The yearly rising
rate of deaths.
“BRING THE SOLDIERS HOME!”
You've heard that one before
Bumper-stickers, galore.
But without a plan, without 'the' man
to do the job -it's too late to be clean-
but a clean political snip -like cutting
political life-support-
is what we want
but this argument's so old, it's
become a haunt.
The streets of Paris are screaming.
suddenly, the little things big countries do
set a push to the domino-effect
we all come tumbling down.
The anger
the rage
of people mistreated
simple words twisted.
Did we really just
“miss” it?
"I Remember When" -poem
the scent
of Chocolate chip cookies wafting through the air
my nostrils tingle, tongue coated as I salivate.
My greedy guiltless youth yearning for
promises of gooey dough and liquid chocolate.
lavender,
my mother's straw-gold hair softly luminescent
the euphoric charm that calms spastic cells;
my mother's violet presence, faded as a dream.
smoke, heavy and damp
mixed with flame and winter.
the smell of woods in August coats my nostrils
with its musk of animals and sweat,
leather newly tanned, the fertile earth and rotting trees.
I lay within the tee-pee, choked by rabbit skins and deer.
we play with skins of weasels, give them names and dramas.
marshmallows puffing in the fire, graham crackers crisping,
Hershey's chocolate between.
always smelling like a mix of sweetened bread, cooked candy, and the company of friends.
Heather-Feather has her bare feet
buried in the damp earth by the fire.
She speaks of when her house burnt down and only
eats marshmallows black.
Feathers and the glint of turquoise rings
back when my fingers were like tendrils of thick rope
not woman flesh and bone.
an old Native pretending
as a tribesman, telling me about the
Cherokee, the Sioux, and the things that children hear.
wet dog, the time when I tried kibble, back when
I didn't mind saliva
all
over
my face.
Pastel dye of Easter eggs, the scent seeping into skin,
rabbits, morning hunts, and
painting innocence on empty, fragile things.
these times when I thought 17 was womanhood,
my socks mismatched with consistency and flair,
and never said, “I remember when”
of Chocolate chip cookies wafting through the air
my nostrils tingle, tongue coated as I salivate.
My greedy guiltless youth yearning for
promises of gooey dough and liquid chocolate.
lavender,
my mother's straw-gold hair softly luminescent
the euphoric charm that calms spastic cells;
my mother's violet presence, faded as a dream.
smoke, heavy and damp
mixed with flame and winter.
the smell of woods in August coats my nostrils
with its musk of animals and sweat,
leather newly tanned, the fertile earth and rotting trees.
I lay within the tee-pee, choked by rabbit skins and deer.
we play with skins of weasels, give them names and dramas.
marshmallows puffing in the fire, graham crackers crisping,
Hershey's chocolate between.
always smelling like a mix of sweetened bread, cooked candy, and the company of friends.
Heather-Feather has her bare feet
buried in the damp earth by the fire.
She speaks of when her house burnt down and only
eats marshmallows black.
Feathers and the glint of turquoise rings
back when my fingers were like tendrils of thick rope
not woman flesh and bone.
an old Native pretending
as a tribesman, telling me about the
Cherokee, the Sioux, and the things that children hear.
wet dog, the time when I tried kibble, back when
I didn't mind saliva
all
over
my face.
Pastel dye of Easter eggs, the scent seeping into skin,
rabbits, morning hunts, and
painting innocence on empty, fragile things.
these times when I thought 17 was womanhood,
my socks mismatched with consistency and flair,
and never said, “I remember when”
Your Lovin ' Bitch -rap/poem
I've got to forget
the head.
'cuz somehow
I've gotta get around the dead
'cuz I'm ballin' up takin' each stride
complicated by pride
and self-spoken lies
and somewhere, a moment ago
I tripped on vertigo
toppling sideways
maybe I'm upside down
maybe I've hit the ground
running.
and I can't let a slip up
over and over again
with a sexual friend
with a tainted refrain
of something I thought could change
but is only the same
boy I knew a long time ago
calling me lover and treatin' me as a ho
I'm just another girl in this city of LA
No Thanks
I'll be a woman and I'll do it my way
'cuz this is today
the now I'm going for
I'm not the yesterday
not the night before
when I gave away
part of my dignity
its killin' me
reachin' for my lips
to give you a kiss
pullin' me down and down
and under
forget it, lover.
how can this happen?
you reachin' for my body
but you missin' my heart
and tearin' me apart
somehow
you pierced me below
and tore my soul.
part of me aches when we celebrate
'cuz you take and take
until I'm near breakin'
and i'll leave before you see me shakin'!
and it's a viscious cycle
'cuz I'm a creature
of habit
and this isn't helpin' me
it's just drowning me
in self-conscious reactions of distractions and deceit
somebody has gotta see me before they
cheat me
of my affections
my
misdirections
and this isn't the first time the only time
it's a life sentence 'til I change my mind
and I gotta change it
get around my head
'for I wind up dead
walkin' zombie
that's all that haunts me
is the feelin' of being starved and no amount of
blood or charge
or pretty flesh can sate me
my hunger overwhelms me
and here we are
you sittin' in my car
tellin' me where we are
your face changin'
and I'll take your name
know you by your state
I feel the question comin'
"baby, won't you give me some lovin'?"
but I can't take it!
I'm tired of this shit
never a moment to sit
quietly beside you, gettin' to know you
the idle talk never there
it's like an empty stare
that I'm seein
I don't feel like bein'
your girl
your bitch to get you free of your itch
it's only temporary
but it's scary
'cuz as I'm losing my time I'm losing my mind
and even if it doesn't mean I'm yours
that you are mine ...
I've left something behind.
the head.
'cuz somehow
I've gotta get around the dead
'cuz I'm ballin' up takin' each stride
complicated by pride
and self-spoken lies
and somewhere, a moment ago
I tripped on vertigo
toppling sideways
maybe I'm upside down
maybe I've hit the ground
running.
and I can't let a slip up
over and over again
with a sexual friend
with a tainted refrain
of something I thought could change
but is only the same
boy I knew a long time ago
calling me lover and treatin' me as a ho
I'm just another girl in this city of LA
No Thanks
I'll be a woman and I'll do it my way
'cuz this is today
the now I'm going for
I'm not the yesterday
not the night before
when I gave away
part of my dignity
its killin' me
reachin' for my lips
to give you a kiss
pullin' me down and down
and under
forget it, lover.
how can this happen?
you reachin' for my body
but you missin' my heart
and tearin' me apart
somehow
you pierced me below
and tore my soul.
part of me aches when we celebrate
'cuz you take and take
until I'm near breakin'
and i'll leave before you see me shakin'!
and it's a viscious cycle
'cuz I'm a creature
of habit
and this isn't helpin' me
it's just drowning me
in self-conscious reactions of distractions and deceit
somebody has gotta see me before they
cheat me
of my affections
my
misdirections
and this isn't the first time the only time
it's a life sentence 'til I change my mind
and I gotta change it
get around my head
'for I wind up dead
walkin' zombie
that's all that haunts me
is the feelin' of being starved and no amount of
blood or charge
or pretty flesh can sate me
my hunger overwhelms me
and here we are
you sittin' in my car
tellin' me where we are
your face changin'
and I'll take your name
know you by your state
I feel the question comin'
"baby, won't you give me some lovin'?"
but I can't take it!
I'm tired of this shit
never a moment to sit
quietly beside you, gettin' to know you
the idle talk never there
it's like an empty stare
that I'm seein
I don't feel like bein'
your girl
your bitch to get you free of your itch
it's only temporary
but it's scary
'cuz as I'm losing my time I'm losing my mind
and even if it doesn't mean I'm yours
that you are mine ...
I've left something behind.
Viscious cycle -rap/poem
when you give a damn
about the winding of your running motor
don't wanna stall. I want to have it all.
I want
full metal-grinding-metal
get me stuck within your carbon transfer
and I am so so
rattled.
if I give a damn.
that car door got shut, but the motors still running.
the light dimmed a while ago.
and I'm standing out here in the cold
looking at the stars to take me home.
like you give a damn.
I don't want to feel that oil
I don't want to get near that flame
combustion an assumption you make
with the tips of thrusting fingertips
while you are between my thighs
forgetting my eyes burning into your skull
icing over the ceiling
holding back that falling rain
turning it to snow
and all is white
soft powder pommeled into hard ice.
isn't it nice? slipping and sliding
and gliding into me
and I am pushing myself back
because
I don't think we know a damn
thing about this convoluted suspension
that sparks a second before we come
together, and when you look at me
I see your eyes hypnotized like a
gazelle in headlights
and I'm driving
and you're steering
and I'm humming my motor still going I don't know the photo to look at which way am I going? can I take you there?
but you stare.
at my chest my hips my thighs my lips or my lips oh my eyes...
they've seen better days better men better moments.
and forgotten in a summer holiday I don't give a damn.
because
it's easy to forget the soft touch and the slow tongue curling
when you bury yourself quickly into the scenery and
never look where you're going
'til you back out,
and your head tilted back over your shoulder
things could be better if only we were older.
but this is young Spring now
and we haven't blossomed together.
pollen droppings, stained with the sweat of your pleasure
my pleasure. brushed up by the wind
tickling the nape of my neck where you left your sweet mark
in the midst of passion
but in the morning the sunrays remind me,
and it's just too hard to
give a damn
about the winding of your running motor
don't wanna stall. I want to have it all.
I want
full metal-grinding-metal
get me stuck within your carbon transfer
and I am so so
rattled.
if I give a damn.
that car door got shut, but the motors still running.
the light dimmed a while ago.
and I'm standing out here in the cold
looking at the stars to take me home.
like you give a damn.
I don't want to feel that oil
I don't want to get near that flame
combustion an assumption you make
with the tips of thrusting fingertips
while you are between my thighs
forgetting my eyes burning into your skull
icing over the ceiling
holding back that falling rain
turning it to snow
and all is white
soft powder pommeled into hard ice.
isn't it nice? slipping and sliding
and gliding into me
and I am pushing myself back
because
I don't think we know a damn
thing about this convoluted suspension
that sparks a second before we come
together, and when you look at me
I see your eyes hypnotized like a
gazelle in headlights
and I'm driving
and you're steering
and I'm humming my motor still going I don't know the photo to look at which way am I going? can I take you there?
but you stare.
at my chest my hips my thighs my lips or my lips oh my eyes...
they've seen better days better men better moments.
and forgotten in a summer holiday I don't give a damn.
because
it's easy to forget the soft touch and the slow tongue curling
when you bury yourself quickly into the scenery and
never look where you're going
'til you back out,
and your head tilted back over your shoulder
things could be better if only we were older.
but this is young Spring now
and we haven't blossomed together.
pollen droppings, stained with the sweat of your pleasure
my pleasure. brushed up by the wind
tickling the nape of my neck where you left your sweet mark
in the midst of passion
but in the morning the sunrays remind me,
and it's just too hard to
give a damn
Passing By A Woman -poem
Passing By a Woman
I see a constellation in your scarf
and it reminds me of home.
That gypsy scarf
the universal goddess
swimming in scarves
and there you sit
wearing it
draped in the beauty of the sunless sky.
Each brilliant movement
an earth-colored woman
her dark hair falling
like a black sea over
hot, bare shoulders
and smoldering skin
is spinning and dancing
and flashing her eyes
the moon glowing darkly within them.
I see a constellation in your scarf
and it reminds me of home.
That gypsy scarf
the universal goddess
swimming in scarves
and there you sit
wearing it
draped in the beauty of the sunless sky.
Each brilliant movement
an earth-colored woman
her dark hair falling
like a black sea over
hot, bare shoulders
and smoldering skin
is spinning and dancing
and flashing her eyes
the moon glowing darkly within them.
Waterburst/Painting Poem -poem
Pointing to the sky,
raindrops and cyanide,
the people are melting.
Their cries echo off
concrete walls
and voodoo dolls
but none can watch the sun arriving.
Hearts splashing
crashing, side to side
they're reaching
and looking on as they go down.
There's a spark in each face
in the last fall to the ground
they splash into souls.
Pools on the pavement.
Water crystals
frozen pixels
their lives blurring into one
illumination
one
waterburst.
raindrops and cyanide,
the people are melting.
Their cries echo off
concrete walls
and voodoo dolls
but none can watch the sun arriving.
Hearts splashing
crashing, side to side
they're reaching
and looking on as they go down.
There's a spark in each face
in the last fall to the ground
they splash into souls.
Pools on the pavement.
Water crystals
frozen pixels
their lives blurring into one
illumination
one
waterburst.
Kurt Elling -Poem
How could one have breathed
and ever felt joy
without having been here,
hearing?
What drug worth intoxication
what heart tremor
vibrato -oh,
staccato my
existence.
I hadn't felt a sun explode across a sky
hadn't glimpsed the silver slip of moonlight
before this night
and How could I have gone this long
and felt any springing
perfection
any moment so full and
satisfying...
Kurt Elling just covered 3 or 4 octaves in perfect pitch.
my heart is dancing
mind reeling
nothing has felt so good
I have never been more in love
more certain of my indefinite love-affair
with jazz.
“gosh, he's dreamy” my school-girl child surfaces and
shivers.
My 'woman' is swooned.
I grin,
a crimson-lipped fool
and giggle. I'm giddy
I shook his hand,
“so, he is man” my fingers tell me.
I wasn't sure
He must be raw
emotion
incognito
as a mortal being
He pounds me with syrum
that reminds me
I would die without, this-music-turned-poetry
played and sung.
I whimper and shudder
those notes are
lovers caresses
plunging into
the curves never touched
by mere suggestive grasping.
This is assertive
this is real
this is irrepressible
this is Jazz.
and ever felt joy
without having been here,
hearing?
What drug worth intoxication
what heart tremor
vibrato -oh,
staccato my
existence.
I hadn't felt a sun explode across a sky
hadn't glimpsed the silver slip of moonlight
before this night
and How could I have gone this long
and felt any springing
perfection
any moment so full and
satisfying...
Kurt Elling just covered 3 or 4 octaves in perfect pitch.
my heart is dancing
mind reeling
nothing has felt so good
I have never been more in love
more certain of my indefinite love-affair
with jazz.
“gosh, he's dreamy” my school-girl child surfaces and
shivers.
My 'woman' is swooned.
I grin,
a crimson-lipped fool
and giggle. I'm giddy
I shook his hand,
“so, he is man” my fingers tell me.
I wasn't sure
He must be raw
emotion
incognito
as a mortal being
He pounds me with syrum
that reminds me
I would die without, this-music-turned-poetry
played and sung.
I whimper and shudder
those notes are
lovers caresses
plunging into
the curves never touched
by mere suggestive grasping.
This is assertive
this is real
this is irrepressible
this is Jazz.
Under Pressure -poem
I Feel/Under Pressure
I feel like shakespeare gone wrong
turned inside-out
by scientists and
injected with Cortizone.
I feel like a baby's soft, pink bottom,
cold and never touched
and wondering what skin feels like.
I feel my toes have
fingers, digging into the earth
for nonexistent roots.
I feel my teeth will one day be useless
to chew and my tongue
will no longer have the will to speak.
I feel the train of my thoughts
will gain roaring speed the sooner I shut my mouth
and with that I feel like a shaken
orange cola, bubbling
impatient for a break from the prison-shell,
for a breath to leak through to
blow me into the air,
to spit myself onto the skin
of those that drink me.
I feel like shakespeare gone wrong
turned inside-out
by scientists and
injected with Cortizone.
I feel like a baby's soft, pink bottom,
cold and never touched
and wondering what skin feels like.
I feel my toes have
fingers, digging into the earth
for nonexistent roots.
I feel my teeth will one day be useless
to chew and my tongue
will no longer have the will to speak.
I feel the train of my thoughts
will gain roaring speed the sooner I shut my mouth
and with that I feel like a shaken
orange cola, bubbling
impatient for a break from the prison-shell,
for a breath to leak through to
blow me into the air,
to spit myself onto the skin
of those that drink me.
Hungry For You -Poem
Hungry For You
Most of all I'm hungry for your eyes.
I get a warm feeling that ripples over my heart when I see you,
and
surprisingly
am charmed every time.
My thighs are warm, I know their softness
and the mere fact that you know their little secrets, too
is enough to make me bat my lashes,
look sideways at you
and smile.
But it's when I know that I don't want you
-don't need you-
would be better off with a different dish
-one more fulfilling to my needs
more splendid of a soul-
that my stomach curls within
and wants to forget the
indulgence
that you are.
Somehow you've got a sweet interior
-soft, like a truffles filling-
and you've got a pretty decoration
for your outer layer.
But there's that inbetween
that you operate so
frequently
when others are around
Or when you are looking for some sugar yourself
to steal from my soft creamy skin
that I cannot stand the taste of!
Like bitter chocolate; sugarfree.
Natural, I guess. -like changing direction of winds-
-like changing your mind-
but none the sweeter for it.
And that layer is so strong,
so hard to swallow
that when I get to your soft, sweet truffle
I cannot enjoy it;
The flavor of before is still coating my lips
my tongue
my mind.
Most of all I'm hungry for your eyes.
I get a warm feeling that ripples over my heart when I see you,
and
surprisingly
am charmed every time.
My thighs are warm, I know their softness
and the mere fact that you know their little secrets, too
is enough to make me bat my lashes,
look sideways at you
and smile.
But it's when I know that I don't want you
-don't need you-
would be better off with a different dish
-one more fulfilling to my needs
more splendid of a soul-
that my stomach curls within
and wants to forget the
indulgence
that you are.
Somehow you've got a sweet interior
-soft, like a truffles filling-
and you've got a pretty decoration
for your outer layer.
But there's that inbetween
that you operate so
frequently
when others are around
Or when you are looking for some sugar yourself
to steal from my soft creamy skin
that I cannot stand the taste of!
Like bitter chocolate; sugarfree.
Natural, I guess. -like changing direction of winds-
-like changing your mind-
but none the sweeter for it.
And that layer is so strong,
so hard to swallow
that when I get to your soft, sweet truffle
I cannot enjoy it;
The flavor of before is still coating my lips
my tongue
my mind.
for Cholktj -Poem
:YOU:
burning crystal light.
the fire kiss of kerosene. the adrenaline pumping through the veins.
you, ice-capped snow-drift cliff
I am HANGING on your tongue.
nervously waiting for the ice to melt, and scared that i may slip away, and slide right down your mountainous side...and hit the ground and explode.
and to explode in you, because of you, to BREAK APART and burst and then...
become all that wet softness and vulnerable brokenness that
disinegrates and shatters so thoroughly that it is ready to become and be created something new.
new, as the dew on the grass, the droplets of water in your hair, the tears down your cheeks,
oh my cheeks, the sobs choked in my throat.
the laughter mingling with all that suppressed sorrow.
and the taste of you, the eyes of you, the mean, tight, sharpness of your knife-cut jaw,
you carved young god,
you David,
you melting golden sphere...
your heart a beacon, the heat emanating loveliness
and light,
beaming from your eyes.
and do I deserve you?
oh, no one deserves anyone, but...
have I been true?
and kept you in my heart, and nurtured you, in kindness and in patience?
have I nested you as a bird will her chicks,
have I fed you from my mouth?
have I stuffed you in my kangaroo pouch and carried you on our way? and kept you warm?
have I been fierce in the shadows, and coy, and sly, and ready to growl and snap and kill those who come to harm you....?
but I've kept you all along, and then the parting came.
and the mother letting go of cubs is one thing.
the lover letting go of love is harder.
but keeping love? no letting love be, and grow, and thrive.
it's what beauty is all about.
but I want to feel your skin, and taste your tongue,
and hang onto it.
I want to hear your heart, FEEL your heart beat against my chest.
I want those eyes, so penetrating, to break me slowly, or aggressively, or kindly.
I have no power.
No leash upon you.
No perfect record of kindness.
the loyalty and trust, the safety of my arms...
I feel defiled. I feel powerless to be...
that perfect girl.
alone with my thoughts which so frequently ask to be murdered quite quickly and severely,
alone with my love which knows not how to escape.
distant and trying to give respectful distance.
These thoughts so distant and stupid,
then suddenly exploding.
exploding into nothingness, no matter consequential, surrender and be victim to this love, be its timeless slave. its devoted servant.
and all I have is that love, splashing out at you, wherever you are, an undying, ever desperate, love.
LOVE. love. LOVE. LOVE...
oh love. it almost hurts how much it pushes against the chest...to reach you.
so I let it go, to be swept on the wind, to be given to you, through whoever you let give it.
and oh love, to wind itself into your heart, to be inhaled in the breath before laughter.
oh love, to bring the sun to shining each day.
oh love to round the moon and spin the earth and she together.
oh love, to bind our hearts, and coincidentally free us...
forever.
burning crystal light.
the fire kiss of kerosene. the adrenaline pumping through the veins.
you, ice-capped snow-drift cliff
I am HANGING on your tongue.
nervously waiting for the ice to melt, and scared that i may slip away, and slide right down your mountainous side...and hit the ground and explode.
and to explode in you, because of you, to BREAK APART and burst and then...
become all that wet softness and vulnerable brokenness that
disinegrates and shatters so thoroughly that it is ready to become and be created something new.
new, as the dew on the grass, the droplets of water in your hair, the tears down your cheeks,
oh my cheeks, the sobs choked in my throat.
the laughter mingling with all that suppressed sorrow.
and the taste of you, the eyes of you, the mean, tight, sharpness of your knife-cut jaw,
you carved young god,
you David,
you melting golden sphere...
your heart a beacon, the heat emanating loveliness
and light,
beaming from your eyes.
and do I deserve you?
oh, no one deserves anyone, but...
have I been true?
and kept you in my heart, and nurtured you, in kindness and in patience?
have I nested you as a bird will her chicks,
have I fed you from my mouth?
have I stuffed you in my kangaroo pouch and carried you on our way? and kept you warm?
have I been fierce in the shadows, and coy, and sly, and ready to growl and snap and kill those who come to harm you....?
but I've kept you all along, and then the parting came.
and the mother letting go of cubs is one thing.
the lover letting go of love is harder.
but keeping love? no letting love be, and grow, and thrive.
it's what beauty is all about.
but I want to feel your skin, and taste your tongue,
and hang onto it.
I want to hear your heart, FEEL your heart beat against my chest.
I want those eyes, so penetrating, to break me slowly, or aggressively, or kindly.
I have no power.
No leash upon you.
No perfect record of kindness.
the loyalty and trust, the safety of my arms...
I feel defiled. I feel powerless to be...
that perfect girl.
alone with my thoughts which so frequently ask to be murdered quite quickly and severely,
alone with my love which knows not how to escape.
distant and trying to give respectful distance.
These thoughts so distant and stupid,
then suddenly exploding.
exploding into nothingness, no matter consequential, surrender and be victim to this love, be its timeless slave. its devoted servant.
and all I have is that love, splashing out at you, wherever you are, an undying, ever desperate, love.
LOVE. love. LOVE. LOVE...
oh love. it almost hurts how much it pushes against the chest...to reach you.
so I let it go, to be swept on the wind, to be given to you, through whoever you let give it.
and oh love, to wind itself into your heart, to be inhaled in the breath before laughter.
oh love, to bring the sun to shining each day.
oh love to round the moon and spin the earth and she together.
oh love, to bind our hearts, and coincidentally free us...
forever.
End of Struggle -Poem
End of Struggle
I never felt stronger than
When I looked myself in the eye.
I was afraid of no other
Worldly demon
After I faced myself.
For, indeed, to fight yourself
Is a downward, losing battle.
-always.
But to be allied with your
Strongest critic
Is to always be
Fairly appraised.
And to be sleeping with a
Friend -instead of enemy-
ensures your sleep.
And to be a warrior in your life
No longer fighting your own battalion
Is to live a life of inner peace
and outer victory.
I never felt stronger than
When I looked myself in the eye.
I was afraid of no other
Worldly demon
After I faced myself.
For, indeed, to fight yourself
Is a downward, losing battle.
-always.
But to be allied with your
Strongest critic
Is to always be
Fairly appraised.
And to be sleeping with a
Friend -instead of enemy-
ensures your sleep.
And to be a warrior in your life
No longer fighting your own battalion
Is to live a life of inner peace
and outer victory.
Cosmos Pot -Poem
Cosmos pot
Pretty fingernails,
Pink and
manicured,
raking up your back.
You know it's the beginning.
The head not played with yet,
the hair not tugged
and You aren't played like a horn
Fuck the dignity!
This prettyness is petty.
The social anarchy is obsolete.
Unconsisting seeds of possible impossibilities
in a feather
tickler
of dust.
I want thrust! -But
I don't know if I'll be compacted together
grinded or shaken
-on the rocks-
or broken.
I want a burst!
Where will the pieces fall?
That fucking head
tooting like a bull-horn;
a distress call to ships across the harbor.
A pair of sneakers;
they wait to sheathe feet and run.
What's the fun if you're not scared?
Where's the thrill?
But thrills are 'bout the contrary,
the getting away,
the surviving.
The living's about the dying.
So the thrill is
just a cock-tease
and never aims to kill.
I need a death threat.
A particle-bursting
of the paralyzed;
a puncture-wound I won't close up
Bleeding is the property of women
and yet it's been the doing of the men
With all the wars
the sons and husbands dying
The sexist past of violence.
To protect and serve.
To tie and bind.
To divide and conquer
and What exactly is honor?
Bleed and birth
and die again.
Monthly possibilities of starbursts
embryonic privilege to combust
a fiery spirit
in the belly of a dragon.
Breathe fire
smack your tail on the ground and roar.
Spit! and fuck the judgements.
Male babies from male paternals of male authors writing of cocks
and phallic
genious symbols.
Let my flower be the message;
the plume of fowl glory
of temptation
the pumpkin-belly
the seed it carries
the carriage of a Queen
the nails rattling on rocky cliffs
the nails of royalty clawing up those backs
the thrust
controlling
controlled
embalming a moment
in the undead pleasure
of babies birthing
breaking blood
of war and taste and tolerance
of those eyes
half-closed
heavy-lidded
smoke-filled and swimming with spells.
Pretty fingernails,
Pink and
manicured,
raking up your back.
You know it's the beginning.
The head not played with yet,
the hair not tugged
and You aren't played like a horn
Fuck the dignity!
This prettyness is petty.
The social anarchy is obsolete.
Unconsisting seeds of possible impossibilities
in a feather
tickler
of dust.
I want thrust! -But
I don't know if I'll be compacted together
grinded or shaken
-on the rocks-
or broken.
I want a burst!
Where will the pieces fall?
That fucking head
tooting like a bull-horn;
a distress call to ships across the harbor.
A pair of sneakers;
they wait to sheathe feet and run.
What's the fun if you're not scared?
Where's the thrill?
But thrills are 'bout the contrary,
the getting away,
the surviving.
The living's about the dying.
So the thrill is
just a cock-tease
and never aims to kill.
I need a death threat.
A particle-bursting
of the paralyzed;
a puncture-wound I won't close up
Bleeding is the property of women
and yet it's been the doing of the men
With all the wars
the sons and husbands dying
The sexist past of violence.
To protect and serve.
To tie and bind.
To divide and conquer
and What exactly is honor?
Bleed and birth
and die again.
Monthly possibilities of starbursts
embryonic privilege to combust
a fiery spirit
in the belly of a dragon.
Breathe fire
smack your tail on the ground and roar.
Spit! and fuck the judgements.
Male babies from male paternals of male authors writing of cocks
and phallic
genious symbols.
Let my flower be the message;
the plume of fowl glory
of temptation
the pumpkin-belly
the seed it carries
the carriage of a Queen
the nails rattling on rocky cliffs
the nails of royalty clawing up those backs
the thrust
controlling
controlled
embalming a moment
in the undead pleasure
of babies birthing
breaking blood
of war and taste and tolerance
of those eyes
half-closed
heavy-lidded
smoke-filled and swimming with spells.
Cloudy -poem
Cloudy
A funny little bird walks across
my toes
like my 200 tiny
meat-incased bones
were twigs on the ground.
It's wings outstretched
horizontal to the ground
it flaps.
It's got a look of determination
like a dive-bomber.
I swear I can see it's
Disney-Animation
pilot-goggles
secured to it's face.
Right above the beak.
A stampede of birds
wings outstretched
are marching
down the road.
Their wings flap, furiously.
Dust rises.
A cloud forms.
None leave the ground.
And soon, it is a storm of dust;
no bird be seen, anywhere.
Just the hum of winged fury
from within a cloud reddish brown.
I think,
'To find clarity,
rise above.'
A funny little bird walks across
my toes
like my 200 tiny
meat-incased bones
were twigs on the ground.
It's wings outstretched
horizontal to the ground
it flaps.
It's got a look of determination
like a dive-bomber.
I swear I can see it's
Disney-Animation
pilot-goggles
secured to it's face.
Right above the beak.
A stampede of birds
wings outstretched
are marching
down the road.
Their wings flap, furiously.
Dust rises.
A cloud forms.
None leave the ground.
And soon, it is a storm of dust;
no bird be seen, anywhere.
Just the hum of winged fury
from within a cloud reddish brown.
I think,
'To find clarity,
rise above.'
Bogi -poem
Bogi
Now everytime I hear jazz
I remember you
The way it makes me feel
does parallel your effect
The smell of passion-fruit
triggers my taste-buds, remembers your lips.
I still feel your warm skin
soft curls
between my fingertips.
The church in Prague
the great Aleksander
the corner cafe of Kafka's creations
and you; my final sensation.
In this place
where my tiny feet never
tiptoed again,
in a place so large of it's people
so secret of their pain,
it shared with me one of it's pleasures.
So in your hands and on your lips
I left a piece of myself
to mingle with the blood of the city
which spoke to my in rhythms,
in subtle thrusts and goes,
a Czechian-Hungarian gypsy-voice.
Now everytime I hear jazz
I remember you
The way it makes me feel
does parallel your effect
The smell of passion-fruit
triggers my taste-buds, remembers your lips.
I still feel your warm skin
soft curls
between my fingertips.
The church in Prague
the great Aleksander
the corner cafe of Kafka's creations
and you; my final sensation.
In this place
where my tiny feet never
tiptoed again,
in a place so large of it's people
so secret of their pain,
it shared with me one of it's pleasures.
So in your hands and on your lips
I left a piece of myself
to mingle with the blood of the city
which spoke to my in rhythms,
in subtle thrusts and goes,
a Czechian-Hungarian gypsy-voice.
Bogi -poem
Bogi
Now everytime I hear jazz
I remember you
The way it makes me feel
does parallel your effect
The smell of passion-fruit
triggers my taste-buds, remembers your lips.
I still feel your warm skin
soft curls
between my fingertips.
The church in Prague
the great Aleksander
the corner cafe of Kafka's creations
and you; my final sensation.
In this place
where my tiny feet never
tiptoed again,
in a place so large of it's people
so secret of their pain,
it shared with me one of it's pleasures.
So in your hands and on your lips
I left a piece of myself
to mingle with the blood of the city
which spoke to my in rhythms,
in subtle thrusts and goes,
a Czechian-Hungarian gypsy-voice.
Now everytime I hear jazz
I remember you
The way it makes me feel
does parallel your effect
The smell of passion-fruit
triggers my taste-buds, remembers your lips.
I still feel your warm skin
soft curls
between my fingertips.
The church in Prague
the great Aleksander
the corner cafe of Kafka's creations
and you; my final sensation.
In this place
where my tiny feet never
tiptoed again,
in a place so large of it's people
so secret of their pain,
it shared with me one of it's pleasures.
So in your hands and on your lips
I left a piece of myself
to mingle with the blood of the city
which spoke to my in rhythms,
in subtle thrusts and goes,
a Czechian-Hungarian gypsy-voice.
Atoms -poem
Atoms
each of us not belonging to anything
mixed up
scattered
consciously pieced together
we attract like substances
my atoms from my past “collection”
reincarnation
are now a part of your current
collaboration
of atoms
and we are soul-mates
piece-mates
atomically recognizable
by each others
magnetism
our ancient charges
we can sense the presence of a compatible connection
and X searching for its fellow X
or its atomic Y
we re compelled to conjoin
to rub ourselves to friction
to fall apart
in each others swirling stars
bursting
pairing off in slap os sound laughter
we
are nothing
but atoms
activated
as an army of one
an agent of determined, conscious thought
we
I
You
are clumps of clutters
of billions of stars
formed in a
compelled
universe of thought
until we break free
spiral out
crash together
in pieces.
each of us not belonging to anything
mixed up
scattered
consciously pieced together
we attract like substances
my atoms from my past “collection”
reincarnation
are now a part of your current
collaboration
of atoms
and we are soul-mates
piece-mates
atomically recognizable
by each others
magnetism
our ancient charges
we can sense the presence of a compatible connection
and X searching for its fellow X
or its atomic Y
we re compelled to conjoin
to rub ourselves to friction
to fall apart
in each others swirling stars
bursting
pairing off in slap os sound laughter
we
are nothing
but atoms
activated
as an army of one
an agent of determined, conscious thought
we
I
You
are clumps of clutters
of billions of stars
formed in a
compelled
universe of thought
until we break free
spiral out
crash together
in pieces.
JAZZ (for Richard and Jonathan; CSSSA 2006) -poem
We speak the same language
You and I
By feeling
and breathing
and moving
and playing.
And playing...
Jazz. We improv
our lives
and we have our own language
and now I feel it.
My body rolls
to the smooth croon
of that saxophone
coming in like a train
soft intensity
and then it fades in the tunnel of this sound
moving
pitta-patta
to that metal-wood
chika-chika-chika-chika
drum-thrum
playing with your eyes closed
and your body
open.
Piano keys echoe
raindrops on crystal
surround sound of my soul.
Bass notes plucking the chords
of me, his fingers are
slapping 'gainst the base of my
spine.
I can't stay still
to this rhythm
too phantasy to break
like dreams
clouded as waking
crashes you to your feet
applause to seal the memory
with a burst of growing intra-rythm.
It's a connection; a
mutual musician respect.
“We down” so to say.
Speakin' some good conversations.
New versions
unwound and springin' up in beauty coils.
Let's see 'em wind.
I can hear the spirits
SCREAMING
They're hollerin' out in exhaltation.
This music makes them soar and
I can hear 'em
wwhhiiiirrrr.
Can't you feel that moving
through you? That's strong.
Someone just died somewhere and
I was just reborn.
That last note held grips me
to orgasmic,
spiritual experience.
My toes point and my heart
lurches forward.
You and I
By feeling
and breathing
and moving
and playing.
And playing...
Jazz. We improv
our lives
and we have our own language
and now I feel it.
My body rolls
to the smooth croon
of that saxophone
coming in like a train
soft intensity
and then it fades in the tunnel of this sound
moving
pitta-patta
to that metal-wood
chika-chika-chika-chika
drum-thrum
playing with your eyes closed
and your body
open.
Piano keys echoe
raindrops on crystal
surround sound of my soul.
Bass notes plucking the chords
of me, his fingers are
slapping 'gainst the base of my
spine.
I can't stay still
to this rhythm
too phantasy to break
like dreams
clouded as waking
crashes you to your feet
applause to seal the memory
with a burst of growing intra-rythm.
It's a connection; a
mutual musician respect.
“We down” so to say.
Speakin' some good conversations.
New versions
unwound and springin' up in beauty coils.
Let's see 'em wind.
I can hear the spirits
SCREAMING
They're hollerin' out in exhaltation.
This music makes them soar and
I can hear 'em
wwhhiiiirrrr.
Can't you feel that moving
through you? That's strong.
Someone just died somewhere and
I was just reborn.
That last note held grips me
to orgasmic,
spiritual experience.
My toes point and my heart
lurches forward.
Monday, March 2, 2009
VIdeo Logs
Last week I was a bit disappointed with the chaos in Vienna. However, as I woke in the morning, the first thing I did was vent via music! So, here's some improv for ya, and some music, and some insight to my past frustrations.
Enjoy!
Although, I'd like to ad THIS to let you know everything is still cool: this is the result of resolution and realization. =)
Sunday, March 1, 2009
Swimming In Spells -Poem
"I'd rather be forgotten" he said
"than remembered half-completely".
I felt all I ever felt was half
of what any being ever had feeling for,
On this skin, Of this blood.
With eyes like an alien,
with dreams like constellations,
I only want to collect
in star-brilliant luminescence
bask in the light of love
joy
kindred.
It's pushed too far,
the game of touch and go
of dodging eyes
and joking lightly of
serious things.
But I'm as deep as the ocean,
as light as the sky.
Satire and sarcasm, just
lost on my comprehension,
my wide open eyes
naive as a childs'.
And now you've left.
I smell your scent,
I feel the heat still murmuring
upon my sides,
my skin,
each touch a blue-print
in heat-maps
of which thought wandered where,
as fingers walked
an uncertain, untraveled road.
I tested you, with each closed-lidded smile,
giving you the permission to watch my
expression;
opening my mind to you,
wishing you'd guess, -even
when wrong in your assumptions.
The game -as we call it, for what else
can be metaphorized
to mime rules being broken-
played by children,
or maybe one child; I, as a girl,
pretending there are no reasons
not to, and no reasons to;
the defense and the offense broken to pieces;
the neutrality subtle, submerged, patient,
or perhaps I just don't want to break the moment.
The step before, where you were a stranger,
was hard to get past.
But the step between
-where friends become lovers-
is too much to risk,
and too familiar to fear anymore,
which leaves not much more than
'a girlish coquette should act
with such morals
as the Church, the State,
the Society taught her';
"Behave, Behave" but I've forgotten
all rules, and burned the playbook.
I fall down each mountain,
I slide down each slope,
I slip underwater,
I let myself be buried by ground,
by autumn leaves;
dreaming.
Don't feel strange to leave.
Be fed-up with playing.
The battle-field of life is tiresome;
when there is strain in love-
making to mirages,
when the whisper of muses
who listen to wingbeats,
give up the fight;
there are sweeter fruits -but
mine are all foreign as the sky above.
Where electricity dwells, where eyes have words,
where touching is primitive; I feel you from
here.
But I won't get up,
and rather not move.
Lift me gently, part me,
kiss my forehead in leaving,
and gently close the door.
Leave the music playing;
let the strung-lights twinkle,
let yourself out.
I want to be left to dream;
I know you've gone, waking.
I know the spell is broke,
but I am still here,
in the delicate web
of your scent,
and your warmth,
I am silent,
my feelings familiar and knowing,
my eyes heavy lidded,
vision-filled, swimming
with spells of
sweet dreams.
You have gone.
I am silent, my feelings familiar and knowing...
"than remembered half-completely".
I felt all I ever felt was half
of what any being ever had feeling for,
On this skin, Of this blood.
With eyes like an alien,
with dreams like constellations,
I only want to collect
in star-brilliant luminescence
bask in the light of love
joy
kindred.
It's pushed too far,
the game of touch and go
of dodging eyes
and joking lightly of
serious things.
But I'm as deep as the ocean,
as light as the sky.
Satire and sarcasm, just
lost on my comprehension,
my wide open eyes
naive as a childs'.
And now you've left.
I smell your scent,
I feel the heat still murmuring
upon my sides,
my skin,
each touch a blue-print
in heat-maps
of which thought wandered where,
as fingers walked
an uncertain, untraveled road.
I tested you, with each closed-lidded smile,
giving you the permission to watch my
expression;
opening my mind to you,
wishing you'd guess, -even
when wrong in your assumptions.
The game -as we call it, for what else
can be metaphorized
to mime rules being broken-
played by children,
or maybe one child; I, as a girl,
pretending there are no reasons
not to, and no reasons to;
the defense and the offense broken to pieces;
the neutrality subtle, submerged, patient,
or perhaps I just don't want to break the moment.
The step before, where you were a stranger,
was hard to get past.
But the step between
-where friends become lovers-
is too much to risk,
and too familiar to fear anymore,
which leaves not much more than
'a girlish coquette should act
with such morals
as the Church, the State,
the Society taught her';
"Behave, Behave" but I've forgotten
all rules, and burned the playbook.
I fall down each mountain,
I slide down each slope,
I slip underwater,
I let myself be buried by ground,
by autumn leaves;
dreaming.
Don't feel strange to leave.
Be fed-up with playing.
The battle-field of life is tiresome;
when there is strain in love-
making to mirages,
when the whisper of muses
who listen to wingbeats,
give up the fight;
there are sweeter fruits -but
mine are all foreign as the sky above.
Where electricity dwells, where eyes have words,
where touching is primitive; I feel you from
here.
But I won't get up,
and rather not move.
Lift me gently, part me,
kiss my forehead in leaving,
and gently close the door.
Leave the music playing;
let the strung-lights twinkle,
let yourself out.
I want to be left to dream;
I know you've gone, waking.
I know the spell is broke,
but I am still here,
in the delicate web
of your scent,
and your warmth,
I am silent,
my feelings familiar and knowing,
my eyes heavy lidded,
vision-filled, swimming
with spells of
sweet dreams.
You have gone.
I am silent, my feelings familiar and knowing...
my eyes heavy-lidded, vision-filled, swimming...
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
