F for Failure - October 26, 2008

This fortitude of peril that has been erected around my feeble fortress

forces the foundations of my fickle feelings 

to cause follies in this short and simple flight.  

Life, and all it's fascinations flounder 

before the fervent fall of my fallible dignity--

which resides upon my feathered and powdered face.

Falsify the fervent failings of my feelings.

Fervently, I'm flailing to foster some sort of

fashionable fiasco to fill the transparency in my features.

Features of Failing - October 13, 2008

Process

until the words come clear

multitudes of monotonous marvels

I'm not confused anymore.

No matter the minute

No head to the hour

No matter the inhalation--

we're smoke.

Out the ashen waters of goodbye--

I couldn't drown.  I wouldn't die.

Process

until the tide subsides

until the simple stories shift apart

falling to my frozen and forged face,

forcing from it features of failing and falling.

Untitled Blurbs (that may or may not turn into anything)- October 13, 2008

(1) 

You hit me across the face

so hard

I could feel your fist in the blood

deep within the fetus of my futile 

and flawless... 

(2)

its easy t smile

day by day

and every song still reminds me of you

but to me i'm untrue.

its easy to lie

its easy to softly save myself

from the stumble

as i gracefully tumble into another 

sort of step

it's easy to admit to the world

that i miss you

that 'i guess that's okay'

but every song still reminds me of you

and every word still compares to you

and every face still resembles -- or doesn't -- resemble you

so, i'm a wretched person,

but so were you.

two of a kind

lovingly blind

it's easy to fake what i've played all along.  

(3)

chocolate curls

sensitive girls

virginal world

in jaded, dirt pearls

(4)

suck from me

your dreaming dreamer's guilt

i know the game

the seemingly seamless shift.

(5)

when I was soft

i didn't realize that love

could be so sour.

the bottle turned

the tannins fierce

and flawed upon my tongue

fortitude has fallen

and I lay each night in helplessness

I'm tearing at dreams that

don't seem hardly mine

but they were

once upon a time

a long ago. a far...

(6)

For a few days now

I've been using the wrong pen.

I can't get your eyes out of my skin.

I can't get your gaze out of my breath,

Your arms off from around my livelihood.

Oh let me go,

   just let me go.

I keep ending this sentence,

I keep turning to new pages...

Your ink seeping through,

you've ruined my epic

distorted the tale.

I'm falling on follies

and failing to free the

fanciful facets of the 

fear fostered faith.

Oh let me go.  Just let me go.

Shattered beneath

is the place where I've died

but since you won't leave--remain here--

I'm dry.

(7)

It's occurred to me tonight

and over

and over

that despite all the insight

left upon me

I still fumble freely

and fail to ignite.

(8)

it's easy to cheapen

to become what they want

in the moment

the moment

the moment

its easy to wander, to stray from the path

and simple to do what you're asked.

it's easy and simple

to simply be sad, sunken, shrapnel

of their wounds upon you

and when dust reveals 

your old sooty scars

who's going to rise 

to hold you back up?

Our Death - October 13, 2008

Your hand through my core

my blood sliding seemlessly

to envelop you--

your tongue tasting tones

in the tangible tannic

texture of the thousand terraces

turning around my mind.

And when I wake...

the scars are slight

but the bruising burns.

For from my garden we have fallen

and from those thorns we rain

and drain the last of our fragile forevers.

[Untitled] - September 13, 2008

I was up 'till two

worrying about you

you wished you were dead

thats what you had said...

the words that you'd bled

from inside your head

as the water you tread

envelopes us like dread.

funny how things rhyme

as we lose all sense of time

and from our hearts climb

the essence of effort's grime...

[Untitled] - August 09, 2008

Are there happy poems left?

...or am I to awaken endlessly

to nightmare visions of what I wish to write.

Rape me.

Control me.

Contort me.

Are there peaceful people left?

...or is my anger and my

dripping disvalue to dote fondlessly upon me.

Beat me.

Misuse me.

Abuse me.

I've Been Too Tired To Write - August 09, 2008

The soft edged haze of light

has faded

and in it's place

been traded,

leaving behind no trace,

with a jaded 

heart's disgrace.

Sickened Dreary - August 09, 2008

I see this clearly

I'm only reaching up to help 

My soft and supple self

From slipping into 

Somber states of sickened

dreary.

Suddenly weary faces...

The eye which,

with ease,

replaces any feeling which was felt 

with the shallow effect of 

superficial surfaces.

Shiny Shoes - July 06, 2008

You and those shiny shoes,

golds and blues,

the intricate hues 

of the debutant muse.

In the endless expanse 

of the lost Losing queues,

you've ignited the fuse 

and burned down the clues;

Oh, you're skipping your dues

and you've missed all the cues

so you're easy to bruise,

and you've fucked up your ruse

feeling with faith

the farce of their 

fine feathered coos

and again it's you

you abuse.

And again it's you

that they use.

Saturday Morning - June 05, 2008

Saturday morning.

Or, was it afternoon?

The sun keeps chasing me,

table to table, in this cafe.

I have things that I could do

instead of fretting on thoughts of you.

Saturday morning

like paralysis.

I drank my coffee as cars pass.

They have places to go.

What do I have?

Where are my dreams?

Somewhere under my Saturday morning

clouds of confusion...

I'm sure.

Dissonance - June 05, 2008

Whispers like spider legs.

Your cum is dripping from my tongue.

You'd do 'incredible things' to me;

Like every other one before you?

Overpower me.  

Tie my eyes in knots

and stretch my fingers

backwards, sideways,

around and under.

Spiders, sulking slyly across

my fragile chest to my broken neck

to flit upon my ears.

Careful not to bite; 

Please, careful not to kill.

Your cum covers me like spit and sweat,

the vagrant in the spider's web,

this scream I can't define.  

The mustard blood

that oozes through the puss of

all of the things I said I wouldn't do.

Your cum upon my tongue

like smoke inside a lung

the broken ladder's last uneasy rung.

Mind's Cry - June 22, 2008

There's a white piece of paper

on this table under my hand

at the thoughtless mercy of ink

and my mind's cry.

I'm always loving in sleeping discomfort,

always screaming the reaping of the tingling on my scalp.

Stay away from my brain.

Te drain of your gain is crushing down 

on the chalkboard crash-screech torture of my quiet.  

I'm not zoned in,

I'm not present in the past of my reality.

Futures are insignificant and

my stomach on my tongue

sings sonnets to my numb and absent mind.

[Untitled] - June 22, 2008

I won't pretend not to be frightened

or lend some sort of superficiality to the splendor of

the presence of impatience in my pathetic persona.

As my jaw and indecision grind to a halt 

and snap from from comforted coves,

where they belong, my sunken eyes inflame and

I'm sleeping in sullen separation from the self.

It's been days since silence sounded simple.

Static sears my open ears--

slipping somewhere under my veins, slowing my blood,

and my thoughts to sludge.

Discordance - June 22, 2008

Each day I'm waking up

to some sort of sleep

and there's this noise

and it's so silent that it's loud

and it's so deafening that it's drenching.

I'm desperately derailed--

my thinking askew--

the ponderances of my pensive and paltry pain

a pittance for this parade of petty flourishes

that are my attempts to reconcile the 

ocean of risiduality with my present.

I'm waking up

divinely deranged.

Each moment further from faith

and I'm falling into this farce

with it's characters that flail and 

fake ferocious facades of fortitude.

[OLD STUFF]

[Untitled] - Written for S. M.... some time in Fall 2004.

Your smile is my tears

damned up behind my 

tight tongue that doesn't

dare look at you frowning.

Squinting back nausea,

holding my stomach in place,

and I don't want to look at you,

"I can't take my eyes off of you"

X3

Melody, Melody, Melody

Looking at me.

Gray burgundy rows

of chairs,

endless spiral stars

down... downwards... down.

Perpetually holding exhalation,

blinking back worry,

biting lip... biting pain,

pain in the palm

of my hand, nails in hand.

Clench

and tighten and cut into physical.

Don't worry...

..don't worry.

Rock-a-bye baby, and goodnight...

& Winken and Blinken & Nod.

[breath]

and your eyes are my smile,

(when they're clear) and can't lie,

flowing free from soft slumber...

Note: Love this poem.  Love it with all my essence... as I love the song that S.M. wrote for it.   Hate the pain, the guilt, the shame that now form a heavy greasy and dirty veneer over it.  Hate and love humanity and this poems constant reminder to me of humanity's potential for comfort and destruction.

[Untitled] - date unknown.

Take away my pain

but replace my felicidad

with fear--with sadness--

and your hands, holding mine,

I won't tell you why,

but, I'm scared...

and filled with sorrow.

You want me to run

sonriendo to you,

but, I'm crying

and they're pulling

my arms,

my heart

mi virginidad

and you want me dancing,

singing to you,

but here they are 

taking turns 

violandome.

Rainy day...de lluvia:

I bare the scar

of a seal undone,

hidden behind confidence.

Demons

pushing down,

barricading my femininity

in a shroud of thorns

chilled with inadequacy.

[Gorgeous] - 2004 Spring/Summer

Dark night,

in fog and quiet,

talking to you for hours

I watched the sunrise.

We had stopped talking

and I had lay in bed

watching intricacies

in shadowed ceilings,

trying to ease spine tingles.

Rolling over, 

through trees:

a red glow.

And so I reached

and tumbling to the floor

hobbled to his window.

Paint spilt upon the sky.

A paper napkin,

As the colors seeped and spread

inching their way across darkness.

Boy in the bed

who wasn't you,

and I put on my pants and shoes.

Taking keys I left

To chase sunrise to where it met the ocean

and the mountains across the bay.

Damning the existence

Of concrete, cars and culture

I wished for nothing more than nature

Nature and you and me.

So, I whispered up to redwoods

and trees with glittering leaves,

let me stay in this moment forever.

But, I, not living in fantasy worlds

Moved on and back to his dark room,

pulled off my shoes

sat on his bed thinking of words you had told me.

You called me gorgeous,

And I let that thought hold me.

Note: Another one of my favorite poems of all time.  I wrote this after a beautiful sunrise in Santa Cruz where I walked out and looked up at these gorgeous, gorgeous shimmering trees.  They only shimmered like that in the early morning light.  It was ethereal.

[Ice Cream] - June 11, 2007

I want ice cream between my toes

Erotic execution. Slushy sleepy silence

as the sunset slowly slips, and fades, and goes.

Vanilla, like purity-- Your words.  We

believed in timelessness.  Or endlessness?  And magic.

Strawberry sorbet: when it was madly 

delicious, truly capricious, triumphantly tragic.

Butter Pecan, when we got comfortable

Creamy complacency in the existance of a mistake

and it became altogether irreversible.

And, the Chocolate Wedding Cake

of our amorous accident [ our lovely loving wreckage]

melted morosely into a miserable mess

beneath my feet.

[Untitled] - date unknown  (sometimes this makes sense to me...sometimes it does not.  It was a challenge I gave myself)

Always alone and

Broken bitterly.

Clearly clouded.

Drowning dogmatic dreams

Easily; eagerly; emptily.

Fallen freely from

God.

Helpless hatred

in inconceivable

Juxtoposition. Just

kicking kind

lives.  Lonely

moments meshed

noticably near

ordinary

people.  Please

quickly quell quiet

resenting rage.

Silent solitude simply

teases the torturous

union under unforgettable

valiant victories.

We want, we wait, whispering

xeroxed

yearnings: yesterday's youthful

Zeal.

Note:  I bet you can guess the challenge?  Anyone's guesses on what I meant are great too.  I know what I meant.. I'm doubting it got conveyed though.

[Untitled] - date unknown-- another challenge

History is hidden

Inside the pages of a book

Still closed to eyes and minds.

This is what repeats itself,

Or fails to 

Rectify its surroundings as

Youth stays blind,

Reacting idly

Of things that 'matter'

Till, too late, we 

See that those who reach out

In vain for help, create our

History and our tomorrow.

Note:  And what was *this* challenge?

Press Me Down -May 21, 2008

Press me down

into the mat

with arms

behind my back.

Press me down

and bite my tongue

frail wrists in strong grips.

Chest upon my back,

compressing what's left

of what was my best

The cracks and crunch

of rib-- one by one, 

by rib by bone--

and with their shattered shards

does come the splintering

of what was my trust

obscured by dust

inside your drunken lust.

Press me down--

(your soft exterior: a playful clown)

face first to you.  On you I drown.

Press me down.

Mossing Stones - May 08, 2008

Static pours over my eyes like water over mossing stones.

It seeps around the curves and back onto my brain,

slips into my nasal passages and trickles down my throat

to the tongue that lies loosely--dehydrated--

inside my clenched quivering jaw.

My lips breath static exhaled through my veins.

My hands reach to touch but only dust away 

the dried blood that encrusts these faded memories.

And still, I can't hold on to even an instance 

of what I never seemed to understand.

Capitulation in Three - April 03, 2008

[Note: For all intents and purposes this is fictional.]

[1]

I did trust you before you reduced me to the object of your drunken lust. I did trust you before your pushing aggressive hands held me down beneath you; before I could blink and see the fire flaring in your glossy glassy eyes. And, I did trust you before it all ended.

And then I was reborn into distrust; into guilt; into shame.

I'm waking with blood in my mouth from my lungs. I'm waking with skin under my nails and dirt on my hands. I'm choking on the thick, dirty musk of your exhalations on my face. I'm choking on the dry dust of this dark hollow tomb where I lie--where its cold-- where I wait and try unsuccessfully to die.

[2]

Today she looked up at the raining screaming sky and blinked her dark and empty hazel eyes. Exhale. And, in the morning she closed the door behind her turning her empty soul and body to the long obstacle ridden road ahead of her. Inhale.

This surrounding conglomeration of innumerable adventurous beings rotates counterclockwise around her aching arching mind that fights to stay on path; that fights to not give up.

Writhe. Exhale. Inhale. Vacuous and vacant. Continue.

[3]

On the carpet I'm watching as the sun flits its fickle form across the strings that restlessly lie out of place waiting to move. The cloud cover moves and morphs in front of sunlight above my window--below heaven. The mother spider carries her young upon her back and they squirm to reach her belly with their stringy discolored yellow legs.

And the cloud covers the sun. It covers the sun.

Equal Other Halves - March 24, 2008

She doesn't know what to say.
She's floating above the ground,
below the sky; between these lines.


Paper sailboats.
Origami clouds.
Pipe cleaner caterpillars.


All that I was and all that she is
has washed away into places
the ocean hides and keeps at bay.
Today, its all new
and I'm lost but it's true,
in these dark caverned enclosures
lies a small simple statement.


A statement that's holding to
fact, like a glue,
And all that we are is diminished
to two
when we find our reflection.


Yet, not knowing who or why,
it's how we undo
our own imperfections,
our own self-rejection.
It's how they desire our very complexion.

The Answered Question - March 20, 2008

Can't I stay in your arms forever?

(In the drizzling dripping darkness
of this guilt laden rain
that pours down on our
interlaced fingers--intertwined beings--
in our intermittent rendezvous
the gutters are filling and
flooding with the bile of our denial.)

I cannot stay.

(I cannot close my eyes and reside in the sigh of this calm;
in this cooling serenity.
Nor can I embrace the heat in the warmth of our bodies,
the palpitations of my heart--

Clouds block my moon
and its ending too soon.
Like the needle of an antiquated record player
it's skipping the tune.

This rain, my shame--intolerable pain--
from which no one can claim any gain.
Down in the dregs of the drain
my silent silver sentiments sink
to join my flitting hope and flailing faith.)

I can't.

Transfiguration - March 11, 2008

It's not raining

but your familiarity is

drizzling down

the cold smooth surfaces 

of my skin like

November without an umbrella.

Sensation sparks on sullen statues,

while the copious cadenced chords

lie heavily in the fluidity

of my broken breath and 

unspoken word.

The sun is shining

but your shadow frets relentlessly

upon the ceaseless rotations

of my ragged wretched mind

wrought with the reckless 

worship of child-like adoration.

Those lonely eyes,

like stray cats that wander 

in empty dust-covered cupboards

looking up from places within their withered 

and weathered solitary spirits--

desperate in their desolate demeanor,--

console me.

It's like they're speaking the sighings 

of a shattered serendipitous serenade;

it's like they're feeling the fettered 

and fallible fodder of a fabled faith in goodness.

Responsibilities that are articulated with no drop of eloquence

in the dripping, drenching severity of sarcasm--

all of this nonsense-- 

it's a paltry pretense for this pale prickling pain

peeking through the crackled plaster veneer which 

veils my vitrified veins,

vested with the resonance of 

my patterns for peace.

Folding - March 08, 2008

Silver serpents sigh

with the dry wry

expression of

shaking searing

incompatibility

biting in my veins.

Holding 

blood that

quickly drains;

Settles and sinks.

Try.

Cry.

Anger: fear in gear.

MippyMappyM'Loo and Bizza Lizza Dizza Doo - March 05, 2008

[Note: This was written just for fun!  But, I'd like to dedicate it to my true life Bizza Lizza Dizza Doo, Miss Jessica!  It's pretty raw and unedited and I wrote it in a half asleep goofy stupor but I hope you love it!!]

Once upon a very gray and rainy morning there was a small mouse that lived in an old microwave-melted tupperware bottom.  It was melted just so, so that it formed a perfect little sphere of a home for the little mouse.  The mouse (whose name was MippyMappyM'Loo, in case you were wondering), on this very gray and rainy morning sat perched upon her little melted plastic home and gazed up through the cobwebs and dusty air of the little barn that she inhabited.  Of course, to little miss MippyMappyM'Loo this 'little' barn was quite an enormous world.  Still, she wondered what it might be like to live on the other side of the dark walls out the pushed out wood knots where she could see the drizzly rain rushing quickly to the earth.  She'd been out 'there' for morning strolls and quick runs to snag strawberries before the Farmer and his family woke in the morning (They always seemed so confused to find the veins of strawberries missing the ripest of the berries.  This made the little mouse giggle with glee.)

The mouse, MippyMappyM'Loo, sighed and retreated into her little microwave-melted tupperware home where she curled up under an old pocket she had borrowed from the scarecrow at the end of fall.  It was early March now and she was sure the flowers would start blooming up soon enough but she was tired of the rain.  The rain, it seemed, loved to play with the dirt... and they made a terrible concoction which made her morning strolls quite a sticky predicament.  Aside from stickily precarious strolls in the after-storm mornings MippyMappyM'Loo was jealous of the wonderful friendship the rain seemed to have with the dirt.  No matter how long the rain took to return from wherever it went when it wasn't visiting her little barnyard the dirt always welcomed it back with open arms...to create that sticky dark oozy concoction.  MippyMappyM'Loo knew she was only jealous because she missed her friend who had left so many months before (before the rain had begun to make its frequent visits after a long absence).

Miss MippyMappyM'Loo had had a friend.  A cheerful and carefree caterpillar named Bizza Lizza Dizza Doo.  Bizza Lizza Dizza Doo had inched her way on to the back tail feathers of a great multicolor hawk (yes... this particular barnyard has a multicolored hawk).  She (Bizza Lizza Dizza Doo, of course) had spied this hawk and craved the adventure that it could bring.  MippyMappyM'Loo had been too afraid to venture along although her friend, the caterpillar had invited her time and time again.

That day Bizza Lizza Dizza Doo inched her way on to the back tail feathers of our friend, the multicolor hawk and off it soared taking away MippyMappyM'Loo's close dear friend.  And so, as the rain trudged on the little mouse grew weary of the weather and wished she could have a friend the way the rain had the dirt...and the dirt had the rain.

Time passed and spring emerged from all of the dark corners of the barn and barnyard.  The little mouse emerged one morning, from her microwave-melted tupperware home to stretch in the light of the warm warm sun.  Climbing (carefully, of course) to the first hole in the barn wall she blinked through the bright light and looked at the lingering rain that lay quietly embraced by the dirt that seemed to sigh and cry at the rain's departure.  It was evident though, that the rain and dirt knew well enough of their friendship that they knew they'd see each other soon.

MippyMappyM'Loo then turned her gaze to a carefree and cheerful butterfly fluttering towards her in the glowing light of spring.  In a tree, off in the distance, a familiar multicolor hawk gave a knowing 'multicolor hawk' sort of smile and MippyMappyM'Loo knew it was her dear friend Bizza Lizza Dizza Doo who had returned transformed by the winter and an adventure in unknown territories with the multicolor hawk.  

And, so the two dear friends caught up on months of separation and MippyMappyM'Loo, the shy and timid mouse decided she might try and have some adventures of her own now too!

The End.

Delicately Decadent - February 27, 2008

Won't you hold my face in your hands
and push away the lonely strands
of hair that fall into my eyes?
Won't you loosen the laces that tie together
my shallow superficial lies?

I'm holding on to hope.
Putting forth this face to cope
with the sullen solidarity of solitude.
And, with this attitude I'm trying hard
to not intrude in their interlude.

We're dreaming between the lines--
sublime within this glowing eternal shine--
effervescence in the essence of the convalescence
of my mind.

And, I'm trying not to fall behind,
feeling as though I've lost my kind
in the aching, throbbing bind
of this all too modern grind.

So, won't you press your mouth on mine and
covering me from time break down my tough but
tattered turrets and break apart the deafening demons
drowning out my delicately decadent but disappearing
desire to be desired?

Interconnectivity - February 25, 2008

Our insensibility—

it’s tweaking my tranquility

and reaping my ability

to act with no humility.

Now, watch this creeping

seeping agility maim the

creativity in the livid living lives

that thrive in questions that

I have yet to ask.

This task,

at the bottom of my worn and weathered flask--

which provides my well and wishful mask--

may answer me at last.

Clarity--

I'm reaching and

leaching off the preaching’s of the world

and its boisterous beseeching brethren.

I need to feed the seed of quiet in this riot.

I need to find the light, which holds tight

within my plight—like sight.

At the bottom of my worn and weathered flask

right here, within my fight

lies this mask that hides a task,

which is finally mine—

finally mine at last.

Observations: Degrees of Disease - February 17, 2008

Are we all trying to fly?
--or really just waiting to die?

Admittedly, I'm not so shy as to deny
that I lie--to evade and dissuade
those that pry for that which I hide
in my pride.

And each gray day -- muddled with the
dark drying clay: this hearsay that
solidifies the guise (over our
crying and sighing inadequacy)
that we feign as we're slain
by the perpetual drain of this
game that leaves us lame
yet untamed to
the torturous superficiality
of their reality -- this calm and quiet
brutality.

[Untitled] - February 11, 2008

Words--
the supplement to
my supplicant need
to be freed.
This deed is the seed
that encompasses
each passing glance
in this dance
toward the strained
and sad reality
of my plurality.

Cuento en 'Dies Lineas'

La niña sostenía el vaso gris entre sus manos sucias como si fuera la vida misma. El listón amarillo de su pelo caía en frente de sus ojos mientras el olor dulzón a ron impregnaba los rincones de la casa vieja, adolorida y oscura. Bajaba las escaleras cuidadosamente así como para no despertar a las arañas en sus hogares de polvo, los ratones y el ser furioso que dormía en el cuarto al fin del pasillo. Desde su nueva distancia escuchaba sus ronquidos venenosos. Ese ultimo vaso—la salvación perversa de su inocencia—y otra vez en sus oídos resonando esa maldición—'tráeme otro ron, hija.'