Bedford, New York

The tears are pouring like rain,

the milk has been poured.

"Don't get wet," she said.

"Poor little thing, he'll get sick."

Drying off wet my wet hair,

the porridge waits.

Ideas poor out my mind,

causing sickness;again, "poor thing."

Why do i hear this voice?

Relaxing as he words seep through my pores.

Taken back from it all,

The rain still pours from my eyes.

Time has passed and I only sit.

Porridge is cold now.

"Clear your plate dear,"

"Annie i'll pour it in the sink."

Kiss the mug and smile like you mean it

If I could tell you all the shadow secrets that I am
I promise, you still would never know.

BBQ Buddha drinks and
Never placid, candy splintered shattered soul.

Last year I spent my whole spring break
Never less than eyelash deep in snow.

There are seven serpents that make the color of my eyes
They cry but will never again see the light.

Petal wet and trembling flesh
Bare breath in red that never reaches truth.

I have seven self given injuries all the blood has gone,
Battle scar piercing I can never live without.

For the truth is, I am the end of star light
A neverland dream delusion Donut dancer.

A Valentine’s day to do list:

Number 1: Embody, recreate and reminisce on any love moment together.
For us, an Indian day; Salwar and bellbottoms, cycling to Indian fast food.

Number 2: Go to the movies and bounce from one to the other until bored.
For us, start at two o’clock, then blissful look and hot kiss in dark theater.

Number 3: Share with the bed and with the sheets a bottle of wine or two.
For us, a cheap bottle from Athina, sweet pink garter belt, brandied lips speak.

Number 4 impromptu: Paint with your saturated mind the naked body of your love.
For us, easel and canvas at hand, many echoes of laughter, subtle affection.

Number 5: Finally, a dreamy day encapsulated, two paintings forming one body.
For us, we reach, not far, for soft colored limbs, and proverbial wholeness.

Rinds in the Loam

A party sits and eats in pungent dirt and leaves and grass,
Now they begin to drink from hollowed rinds found in the loam.

I meet a wooden man with an Easter Island Face,
He carves a deep and hollow tune I cannot erase.

She walks on thin glass heels through crevices in granite,
Hollow laughter rings just behind, shrieking from stone to stone.

A freshly minted mime shines a Windex-clear window.
His hollow motions haunt me as my grinding teeth groan.

A blacksmith pounds his anvil at an olde-timey faire,
His hammer strikes are hollow; he does not pound for fares.

The old king feels arthritic while he waits for Ragnorak,
His sword hangs at his side useless it is forged from hollow bone.

A wizard plays at solitaire in the halls of Xanadu,
This sage does not feel pride though, for every hand he knew.

Migraine

Not everything seems to look the same
my eyes are too crossed to look.

Books are open with words;
hopping ink that looks up at me,

teasing my pulsating nerves,
frayed with each watery look.

The television screen yells
a look of pure ghostly passion.

Drumming on my orb
lightning takes a look

at the swelling of my sanity.
Whispers look like hell.

A footstep, a nightlight, a rain drop
look through pillowed ears,

and echo past a guarded temple
into the gray looking nerves.

Please no sound no light
to look me in my mind.

Messages smudge in vain.
At my Whit’s end, I simply stop — looking.

Casualties

A perfect ripple of flesh in the night that shakes off insecurity.
Lip, enamel and breath encircle a tongue and speak of perfect victims.

Perfect mornings blanched by tired light and hidden under satin sheets -
There is no victim in taking in a breath of hair, of roses and smoke.

You are perfect in your profession, a doctor in an immaculate coat -
To you there are no victims, only bad choices and equality and balance.

Perfect lies spoken into electric air that carries little deceits -
Little deceits for little victim, me, and aching pity for you in the years to come.

Little, secret, perfect beggings spoken at night for aid, for support of flesh and bone -
Subtle denial and malicious ignorance, noninvolvement, creates more victims.

Perfect in their victimitude, humans sweat under the weight of secret guilts.
But if victimless crimes are Alex's specialty, why does he sweat so?

Giraffe

A neck freckled more than most pulled toward me long enough,
And love coalesced all the more vulnerably and fruitful.

Borderless skies brewed with the sea’s body too mutual a gray.
Like chameleon doctrine: color reigned. I slipped even more from distinction.

Each soul needs judgment launched from stiff-stone, then truth-bruise.
More and more—upon your rocks impact—they cracked and built weight.

He whispered to me, “Celina, each giraffe-neck generation is longer than the last.”
Is then the lesson of trees to bear low fruit no more?