Water
(working title)
Veins blue and bulgy like rivers
flowing lines
slipping off the deep-end
A deep-sea creature
coming to the light
I asked ‘what do you love enough to leave?’
Fall off, like fall leaves
in the shrunken trunks of Autumn trees
The night looms, all vulture-like
Darkness awaits to rush through us like water
so I rushed through it like the Aquarius I am
and like the Aquarius the great ocean was, in another life
I waded through those waters,
and felt its pressure against every bone in my body
like the bustle of my city against its serf
two soles against the turf
But in the morning, we’ll evolve
like a butterfly from a caterpillar
And proceed like it’s always been ours to take
everything and nothing
Until a wave comes back again
to hit me, to floor me,
to seal me like an envelope
Cerebral Poison
A gentle retreat back home
back inside the safety net of insecurities
Spending all our lives curtsying around the truth and then we’re gone
The moon smiles at me
but it can’t be trusted
It’s part of some conspiracy unknown
Condemned to happiness
Do the boats keep leaving?
The doors keep closing?
I’m right there
I’m an eternity away
Forever and a day
Forever, you say
But let’s have our last hoorah
some time soon
So I can abandon you on your pedestal
for a brighter day
a lighter life
Submission
Words are good servants
and bad masters
Like me, sitting there, on your wired, wicked chair
above the green, green grass
Yet I am human after all
Not a brick castle with magical bridges that cross my waters for me
In a cloud, you are
that yellow brick house overlooking forever
But your windows are mirrors
and vice versa
Lofty dreams
A park floater…
the type your Grandma looks at all funny
As if she hasn’t been down that high way
The see-through walls of your exteriors
aren’t that high and mighty
You’re just my horse
and I’m just a hair-clipped girl
looking into the rippling waters of our cubed expectations
Re-tracing winding roads we are no stranger to
Yet every time, it appears to be the path less beaten
Boy you are the bush, not the tree
But your branches get me every time
20081204 / Goodbye Poem
(Aracelis' Workshop)
How do I say goodbye to such intimacy?
The air between my shea buttered skin and my favorite shirt
You’ve treated me well and warm
Goodbye
The light between sacred sheets and rose duvets
Dear, spirits in my elevator - the only ones tangible to my day’s relief
Numerous sighs – goodbyes
Sweat in lifelines
Night in earlobes
Summer on taste buds
Farewell – you – white dressed homeless man on 12th street
Farewell 12th street
Jingle of keys
Goodbye the thousands of beautiful sunsets
Millions of gorgeous eyelashes unfolding like rose petals to the touch
The hundreds of train passengers I have fallen for
All of our secret deaths
Goodbye
The thoughts on my mind that wake up with me
This is how I say goodbye to my life, fingers locked listed:
Goodbye rough muscle, smooth teeth
The ghost in my closet that I’ve wasted many a 6-year-old bone trying to tippy toe past – stay fast asleep and friendly
Goodbye the eye: a deceiving bitch
Goodbye the bag on the brownest tree that my cousin told me a dead baby lived in
Goodbye jarred lady bugs, attempts to fly, jealousy
Goodbye the 3 days of cold lonesome I never got to warm
Goodbye to the Brooklyn bound A trains to Lefferts
Left us with dirty bed spreads
Goodbye BedStuy, Bushwick, the Village, Toronto, Brampton
Goodbye corner cracks, cracks on the corner, crack on the corner of your bed
Goodbye lead, paper, everything toxic
Goodbye skyline, blaring computer screen
Goodbye screams in pillows for hands
Goodbye blue sky, bubble gum pop pink crushes – like stronger than love
Goodbye alleyways, used tub water
Goodbye my sister: my first love, first shoulder, first spine, last love
Goodbye inny belly button
I will live with you in the dirt of old quarters
And love you between purple velour coffins
20081130 / Ode to Nuit
Artichoke smoke mascara embedded eyes
kind - your pools of pupils are
I drown time in them
Diamond hair clips enveloping the rivers of each strand
Tangling like dream catchers
May I ask - where do you put my nightmares?
Craft them into something useful
A better me
You hide my secrets, fears with fingers of mosquito nets
I hear you whisper in the dark when I'm scared
and I create hobbies of imagining what I'd say back given the occassion you were talking to me
about me
I came up with one sentence...
Lock the door behind you
Friends told me to caution myself around you
knock me down, nocturnal
Temptation skyline of a smile sink
Baptize me in the thick scent of your chamomile weed
Your night and day personality saturates many of my moons
Where do you end?
Eternity between my toes, you are -
the insides of my eyelids
The one I will always look forward to resting my head next to
The gotham man on the moon
20081015 / Night Time
She meets you in the dead of the night
Where the sky and floor join at some place unknown
To carve scriptures in your flesh
For another to read
If body language were vocal, we would all be in trouble
But at least more comfortable in our own skin
The wrinkles on our tongues
Curves in our laugh lines
The kind of curves that your eyes dive off of
Dangerous, elephant ivory: smooth and glossed over
The sparkle swimming in her iceberg crashing blue irises
Confidence drowns in these pupils
Caves for nostrils
The curve and break slope in her nose resembling your people
"The chosen ones", all 13.2 million of you
But here you’re the only,
besides the 300 year old sky scraping oaks
and sheets of midnight marauders forest green grass, for miles.
The dark night is cut through with hard laughs escaping soft lips
Red as brick
Teeth, cold as bone
Breathe, abrupt like knuckles cracking
Skin lying under thumbnails dug into the point where the thigh meets the hip
She throws her hair back taking all the stars with it
You went to sleep late
Stayed up memorizing her scent,
as thick as burning whicker
Intoxication always induces how quick late nights turn in to early mornings
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The Quiet American
Solemn blues paints a snowy 42nd street
He looks downtown and sees a set of buildings from 1958
The background of a Madison Avenue bourgeois flick
David LaChapelle drowns Tupac in a tub of chains
His brown bold body, like the coffee cake of my honey
The minds eye is open when your naked eyes lay sleeping
Attraction of flame
Spying on the science of fire
Dancing for fame
Icy coated caves it floats through
Like birds coasting in the sky
A black and white life up against your grey hues
Hanging socks, shower floor, toilet box, sail ship, space ship
Towel
You
US
Bright lit blue-skied battlefields
Welcoming grass like sheapskin mats at the end of your bed
Chipping blue stool reminds me of the smell of a place I once called home
Like mental locations
The air chair pops passionate pupils of luxury
Iceberg oculars
Pony-tailed eyelashes
Your denim-patched, delicate, tumultuous heart beats as a bee buzzes
Docked boat, leather belt man
You have the entire netted world in the palm of your hand
that you simply squeeze to relieve stress
Casting a powerful stare out of your glowing sunglasses to nowhere particular
Then casually moves forward
You wear your aura quite well
What else could look so good on you?
Projected films and moon-lit pillow mountains
You’re an anorexic bird for the holidays
Or a Willy Wonka blueberry smoking really old cigarettes to assist enlightenment
You step off the street into the traffic of a floaty device and fruitful tides crashing little clear cups of blue juice on your back where you cannot see its magic
You chase your tail like a foolish dog
The silence before the storm comes and a really gorgeous light blinds my eyes
Tinting the world to look like a 70’s film
Dusty books and hippy hair
Blank stare nudity
Hey! Don’t you think Errol street’s backyard alley is funny?
Kaleidoscopic topics in search of better bop-it’s
I wish to dream in Frida Kahlo’s style of painting
And living
Dazed eyes behind round sunglasses
Beads in your hair, over your bed
I don’t know… what are you anyway?
Just another troublemaker? Another poison? Another psycho?
The quiet Russian walks in a room of hills that look like sand clouds in the direction of a door that will show him all his simple life’s pleasures
Suntanned California
Fake flowers on diner tables
A young couple in love pop like balloons or whiplashed atoms in the crystal freezers of time captured on a Polaroid
Intra-uterine memoirs of candy painted cars and swimming pools
Statues and Kurt Vonnegut paintings
All the links of childhood floating on a mattress suspended over the dirt next to the skyline
The stars in the sky arrange themselves to look like the states on the American flag
The blue man asks what is it all for?
I stare for a long time and leave altered
With eyes that are a little more hypnotic and glint with the glitter of six year olds crowns
Space stuff exhaled to send its thoughts and prayers to the heavens
They grow up to become happy-go-lucky girls and boys at SVA.
20110623, tumblr piece
I jump I hump I jump
a low altitude earth orbit
the acceleration of gravity
Kate Moss’ shiny hair gives away her expression to the wind
A chill on the back of her neck
Frumpy goosebumpy
Mountainous Max humbly glows
Surrounded by the cannon crashes
Venus gets knocked out of orbit in a leopard bra holding a blue bong
the shy and shining shadow silhouette of an unidentifiable young man
I spy an Einstein eye sty
Bacteria grows where flower petals fall
She’s like a tattooed merry go round in the water
All lit up and frantically yelling, giggling, at peace, at part
The future at a different time is grasping, clasping, rasping for this moment
What a hopeless romantic the past is
Ironic ivory and mudded mahogany
A headdress holds all of her thoughts under
Secreted secrets
Dazzling down, down town
The halo hair of Andy Warhol boxed in a crossed coffin
For no one to stare or shoot at any longer
Until the next one comes along
And makes a damn mockery of your picnic shorts and bare back and outstretched abs
Calmly clenched fists
Uptight sweater knits
The trees have holes in them that embody your body whole
He’s an interesting man, that oak tree
A tiger in a kitten’s body
Stretching itself thin and weary, wirey, fiery
Frayed finger foreskin, delightfully dilapidated
The pattern his hands make remind me of things I speak too often about
If a ball bounces six times how far does it travel vertically?
Well this depends… if it’s in the park it travels more trees and less assholes
If an obnoxious kid dismisses this ball, how am I supposed to care about something he doesn’t care about himself?
But I think I do care
Its only fitting
Like the bottom of a tea cup and the plates that were made to unite with it in coffee cuddles
His mouth is shaped as the sound of a whistle
The message is the messenger
Many manly masculine leaves frenzy feminine a bout de soufflé
A sacred smirker, with an arm muscle the size of the dove in his right hand and a 40oz in his left
Weird pant pockets
His curls are whisps of smoke, disintegrating in the air of broken brokeh
Bloody buddy holly, you are drunk
But a beautiful insomniac that can’t stop snaking and shaking
Maybe its that pipe dream in search of a ripe lean
Fear fantasy
Her cheekbones show most when she’s left speechless
Hiding from whoever, however in fetal position
Wishing she was another man’s woman
One that doesn’t exist
If she were water her waves would crash hard and her ripples would slash cuts in the reflections of those that look into her, even if just on the surface
Even if just for a split second
And she has no space in between her legs
When I look at where her bum meets her thigh I can’t see the other side
Maybe she’s a virgin
Rioting rebellion
Without a damn cause
Except to give people the middle finger
His smoked out hands rest at the indent of her lined shirt
it looks like loose leaf
She looks sad
she was happy once
The kind of happy that wrinkles like to exploit
And he just stares and wonders and shrugs
And her face gets reorganized and pushed and pulled
And now her smile is a monotone malfunction man
Who likes heels and suits and little girls
Desaturation defines her
Up and away into slender smoke she goes
He ships her off to America as a prized posession
Like Lady Liberty
Trash and treasure
A sandy spectacle
The infinitely little men walking across a cracking bridge mirror the infinitely great cloaked crooks watching from the forest
Not good enough to love, she thinks
So her route is the wind
And glances from people whose face remains unseen yet unforgiving
As if people were their shadows
Or their bodies
Or sketches of their bodies lying lifeless on hovering tree stumps
A tire floats by
She thought she could taste her daughters youth in his kiss
A dull enlightenment
He builds castles in the sky on crappy clouds that aren’t really there
And claims he’s happy, the way he is – blind, tortured soul
It always comes back around and down to you, doesn’t it?
Who you seem to be, who you want to be, who your friends are and how flash makes your dangling body look in front of Terry Richardson’s segregating lens
Offering yourself to The Look Now
I still want to punch you in the face when I look at you across the dinner table
Or lovingly bite your smitten cheek
Your belly button is the big black hole enveloping all the starstuff
You can laugh at this, but I’m serious
Feathers grow out of your back
And then suffer from growth stunts because you’re tired and distressed and angry all the time
And frustrated and broke and doing your best
You are doing your best
Are you doing your best?
Well what does that mean when you stare at me with raccoon eyes?
Racking thighs rocking and rolling moon tribes
You and your heartbreaking napkins
Funny freckles, please don’t look at me that way
Please don’t look at me
If she can’t live in the curve of his smile she would rather be a super slut
With the mirage of twin towering over her predecessors
Onlookers need binoculars, proper oculars
a tourist attraction for the finest suit and ties, leather boot lies
until someone knocks her down and she wonders why
as if she wasn’t a vulnerable onlooker the entire time
An Elegy for the Beautiful
Sunray’s curled up like spiral staircases
and your hair
Natural, morning light
I want to remember you like that
God, how you were beautiful back then
Pillows of clouds bellowing between your lips
Falling asleep to the spontaneous light of your TV
And music, I miss the way you make songs sound
And air feel
Free
We parted full trees with fingertips alone
Mischievous innocence
Yet took everything as slow as how your eyes are walking out of my memory
How I wish I could see you like that again
I just don't want to remember you this way
With your brain cells in dust particles and dead stars
The branches extend their arms with their dream catcher like tendencies
Tangling your thousands of elegies,
Written for your thousands of secret deaths
What is left of you?
That keeps you able to hug so tight
Holding on to butterfly wings that you birthed
Hoping for them to take you to the angels
20110130, tumblr piece
A transformer on crutches with a lion at his foot and the number 4 as his mane
An oversized mannequin arm hanging like Seinfeld episodes
The camel’s are all gone now, so I’ve been smoking rollies. I’m so excited for duMaurier’s again, and the bent cigarette sexual impotence references on the box
Off the walls
Toronto bricks and divisions
I hope for spice girl heels in opp shops and saved by the bell star smiles
With dimples and suitcases
This guy reminds me of Isaac Hayes on his Black Moses record fold out but with two white babes
Watermelon skulls seeded and planted in the garden of real life and turf of Hollywood tan lines
To own a red car is simply to pay more insurance
The same qualification doesn’t apply for gingers or red walls or red nails or red dresses
Red carpet…maybe
Whatever chemical is needed in neon sign lights is what’s all in your eyes
Natural abundance
Lashes unfolding like rose petals in floral print
I like her for who the mirror tells me she is
Polka dots and fur remind me of my love, a witty label whore
With a diabolical halo and the light of an unknown source flickering in her core
My incandescent velvet girl friend
Dashing snow and smoking Newports, by preference
Long nails and wine glasses
She broke my shower once while having sex with Johnny
If we didn’t live in New York and sleep with scumbags I could imagine that scene similar to the one in American Beauty, B bathing in roses with deep and passionate coloured lipstick
Instead my imaginative reality leads me to see flashes of BUBO reminiscent fireworks and unknown galaxies setting flame to their existence
Or just some drooling mouths and a fallen shower handle
Some pink and fragrant suddy soap, straw hats and red bandanas – all too Clay evocative
Fire hoses, pomegranates, Polaroid guitars, tailoreds and the al camino
Sleeping and setting fires, flower gardens and white boy things
But that’s not me – or who to say it is?
After all he has cupped Lil Kim’s breasts, how is he not the man for me?
B would be the man for me if she were a man
Maybe I’ll like girls soon, but only the ones with strawberry tongues and mid drift shirts
I would much rather white pants, awesome boots, socks that remind me of sock puppets and a lumberjack shirt with Marlboro’s in the front pocket, real 90s Dad appeal
Maybe him and I could live in the middle of a forest where red cubes and fairy shrines could be found on our daily mushroom picking walk
We’ll have to fly in a shiny plane if we ever want to be in cold weather
He can wear cool back packs and patterned shorts with rainbow Nikes
And I can re-live my dreams of being a hybrid of semi-cryptic Jackie and Crazy Spice
And we’ll love each other like John and Yoko
With no big elephants swanging their truculent tails around in the middle of our room
Pastel tenderness in the glow of lurid lit nights
He’ll have a great jaw muscle that when clenched gives an appropriate illusion of tough guy behavior
Dark Disney fantasies pursued in an astronomer’s atmosphere
A mysterious rainbowed woman with gentle hands who crafts collages
Electric elbows and wired thighs
Multi-colored nails and painters eyes
She throws her hair back taking all the stars with it
His eye peeping out of the cracks in his hand looks at her, the apple of his eye at least for that one moment
And dives off of her curves into spiral staircases
Solar tattoos and golden graffiti
Exploited stop signs and Canadian flags drawn on loose-leaf used as gift wrapping paper
The lover daze in lacey bras under trench coats
Off white bed sheets, duvets and feather pillows
Cigars, Jordans and sunnies
Let’s get Lindsay Lohan wasted and never sleep in separate beds
We can wake up and watch Home Alone, Discovery Channel clips of comb jelly fish and Michael Jackson music videos
You can tattoo my entire back with your fingertips and I’ll guess that you drew a dragon
Bubbles, belt buckles and boxing gloves
How innocently you pop the white pearls of my spine
Lesbians for Lower East Side with candy rings and beach hair
Sex and the city and American flag joints, sailor printed Hello Kitty Stussy ads
A man got her to be his, at gunpoint
And they lived happily ever after in bowling alleys and ditches
She was the snow angel in the hallway
Downtown locked and loaded skater kids with discernible nipples under sheer shirted girlfriends
I’ve always wanted to be the rowdy hot Penelope Cruz in satin shirt smoking a cigarette via Vicky Cristina Barcelona type
Clueless crooked penis pizza crust
I’m over being the breathe of fresh air
I want to bite and be inebriating again
Toxic tear shed and not on my behalf either Leather Jacket
Starry-eyed war, pre-rolled spliffs and Holga cameras
Brace face fuzz ball
Spontaneous truth sex talks
Wink at the lens now baby and smile for canned camera
Cannabis cuffed
Good Friday is only one flight up
Can’t you see?
20170419, tumblr piece
the past
falling out the sky
deserted and dry
burns through money
life of Pablo style
only ashes left now
missing New York
a light in the night
thick like honey
shines like crystals
hard wood under my toes
blaring sun in my eyes
through the drapes
a lace pattern
bubbles rising
a soft but rough feeling, like cashmere
appears before me
confusing to the touch
to spin
to fuck
I sit and ponder on it all
as it eludes me
20150206, 2AM
Here I sit, torn and trodden, on my Mom’s day bed that he and I once shared.
When we were here, just four months ago, it would be so hot that I’d sleep alone on the couch, while he lay, selfish in slumber, amongst my childhood pillows.
My favorite was a crocheted masterpiece with a playful kitty,
trying to catch a bee on one side.
And on the other - a red, three-dimensional heart set against a deep blue velvet backdrop.
These days it’s a lot colder.
When I got to my Mom’s apartment in Williamsburg, from Los Angeles, I arrived to a neatly folded pile of his shitty boxers and socks that were too beneath him to take elsewhere for safekeeping.
I want to burn them
but this is a New York apartment, with no fire escape
and though it’s the coldest February in years, I put them in a bag to throw out instead.
I catch my mind stuck on the fact that we once laid here,
on this very twin size mattress,
happy.
But that too was just a phase,
Like his phase of battle rapping
Or like his phase of talking in that heart-wrenching baby voice
Or like his “cleansing” phase
Or like his coke “phase”
Or like his phase of Lizz, Elayna, Lou
And now, like his phase of me.
His phase of our days in love
“living in blue, in love with you”
I once thought that I only loved men as a measure of how much I loved myself.
I now know the feeling of being that ambiguous other;
the feeling of being loved as a calculator,
a ruler, a measuring tape.
We both used to be the friend, the lover, the better half, so to say.
But people are never who they say they are
And love is never what you think it is.
Unless you think it’s this cold, two-sided pillow
With a pussy on one side
And a heart on the other.
//
I never experienced love like that before -
the way we stared at each other for hours,
as if the world was ending
or more so like there was no world.
The way we shared everything;
a home, 930 Myrtle
a twin-size bed at my moms
a white leather sectional at A.Chal’s
the world.
We shared the deepest, darkest corners of ourselves
but also the lightest
and also the surface
a lot of surface.
I wonder if he asks himself ‘what did I do to fuck this up?’
over and over when he lays down to sleep, like I do
I wonder if he remembers the day, like a death, that he stopped being in love with me
He says he mourns us too but I wonder if it’s the same bone shivering, hair raising, tooth grinding, stomach flipping feeling I get
If not, I wish I could give him this feeling
But no one is right exactly
We both followed our hearts and had no choice but to hurt each other deeply
Until I Forget
His beauty marks
like bullets to my brain
But only for now,
Until they slip on out
And its remnants slowly seep
Into my blood and make it thicker
Makes my blood boil with anger
and shiver with passion
Cry with laughter, laugh with tears,
tremble with fear, shake with pleasure
We build civilizations, large and small
just so they can get torn down and take us with them
What a strange, black hole of a snake time is
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Untaken Photographs
Her eyelashes look like millions of microscopic flower petals from this angle
The creepy tin man atop Webster Hall is talking to himself again
About space and how tin foil looks like stars and twinkles like them too
Old floral dressed black women are perched across the street
Holding bags of free food and a newspaper that reads SURVIVAL PENDING
They appear to be waiting for the bus, but when it comes they never get on
Somewhere in an apartment behind them, a woman sits in a leopard dress
Her hair done to look like a glazed cinnabun
She thinks it was the acid that made her take all her clothes off
She’s a little kid on Halloween
Getting candy
From old men
From under rocks to on top of logs
She has a shrine in her closet and tells people to shut up
One could stare in her eyes for eternity
Leaving Australia
Leaving Australia
It all is way too surreal, I hate writing in airports/on planes, it always feels cliché and a trashy time to reflect on something so WORDLESS. I listened to Womack and Womack and Black Keys in the car ride here, Sunni and Julian came over at 8AM and we left at 8:30. I hope when I go back I will have the strength to keep up these articulate, beautiful connections and hopefully find such unique, special individuals in NY.
Your eyes are voids. Spiraling but stern and solid. Spinning, shaking.
You are sunshine rays that have set me free.
Golden Plains, March 20th 2011
Ate half a tab of acid and went to the valley with Fry, Ryder and Julian and laid in the grass enjoying the scenery and each others company. Talked about twin bubbles and how tragic it must be for the last standing bubble after his other half pops and dies. And how before bubbles were actually invented cavemen could’ve easily mistaken the soapy bubbles for a very camouflage-able insect, blending into every atmosphere from brown dirt to green grass to forest treetops to blue sky to white cloud as it mysteriously float-flies up into the air and disappears forever. We loved each other so much right then, I could feel it and we all decided to have a little cry. And then we made up a talk show entitled “Crying with Fry” and we listed what music we like to listen to while we’re crying with Fry. And what pants we like to wear whilst crying with Fry. AND TONIGHT ON CRYING WITH FRY…
And we decided it was all too good, so we left and I wandered and listened and watched. And night time came and the airy ferry lights were alive with the smoke machine and all the people in all of their own worlds together in this one world. We smoked joints like they were cigarettes. Haven’t smoked a real cigarette in 5 days because of the abundance of weed and because of my bad cough. Went to Maddy and Freya and Sunni’s tent and smoked bongs and killed warrior ants. JR and I had some great one on one time, mostly making up songs I wish I could remember them. They were great.
SUN. Got up, asked the hot neighbor to roll me a joint because no one in my camp was awake and I couldn’t roll one (or could I?) and he was hot. Then went to get tea from the field and came back the whole camp was awake, smoked the j with the neighbor and chilled with crew having Pink Flamingo/Space Jam juice and morning snow cones.
Saw Besnard Lakes, they were soooo good, they got the glory boot from the entire audience meaning they were the year’s best act. There was a red head convention by the pink tree. Ryder, Dan and I went back to the valleys but the further up ones and made a song about it, naming it Make Out Point – “where you bring someone really special that you want to spend all of your days with HERE. Tell them your feelings and what you want from the relationship” Gooood times. Best Coast wasn’t that good. Joanna Newsom was kinda cool, I think.
Dom, JR, Jess, Andy, Simon Fire/Fry, Julian, Ryder/Vryan, Shannon, Lily, Mia, Robby, Sunni, Freya, Maddy Mar, Daniel Love, Pete Baxter and more <3 <3 <3
20110222, tumblr piece
Snorting a small mountain of cocaine
Vibrant, clueless Brittany Murphy is dead now
Just like we’ll all be soon or someday
A camera flashes and suddenly my ears ring with the sound of white
Clouds
Four blue doors, different and each individually stunning
The overwhelming options
My dreams become acquiescent of my nightmares
They both become me
It’s so fucking real
In luscious, diving blues and glowing greens
Various hues dude
My memories look like a young zealous couple sitting in a park silently telling each other their souls
Street lamps light up the trees trailing and limping limbs
An entire midnight metropolis passing there behind them
A small light flickers in the blur of collective electricity
Will Smith or Barack Obama could be turning on that very light that she sees as a flicker
Living their line simultaneously
Magic moments when strangers stories meet
A pearly white 1994 Jeep often speeds through this suburbia state of scruples.
So do beautiful blue beaches built off submerged cities.
In this multiverse, there once sat a furry white cat
With hauntingly huge eyes, that never blinked
She sat atop a hill, staring at ants, wondering if they knew they were on top of the world
Wondering if humans think about the same thing ants do… probably.
Striped, starry-eyed, sparkly soul, unicorn man.
Your conscience is beautifully haunted with misty mountaintops and dreamy branches
Left and right, day and night
Tram tracks and flare jeans, wooden beads and fogged glass
A 50 foot skeleton emerges from the rips of the river with a notebook
Bones enjoys drawing, she releases all of the demons and angels from her grasp
They walk off the pages into a stream of water where a swing takes them under
And suddenly heaven and hell is there on the lap of a little boy in vast blues
Heaven and hell is there on the lips of a woman running barefoot in a dessert
Chasing the fantastic phantasmagoria
Heaven and hell is there, knocking on your door, disrupting your television program
Live from the man on the moon, who does not know whether he is a man dreaming he is a butterfly or a butterfly dreaming he is a man
With fluttering fairy tale flight
The dead caterpillar, like mirrors, feels jealousy for unbound beauties staring from beyond
Scratching her wing disks, detachable.
Checking the time and pressing illuminating lights on your phone
Glowing in the midst, freezing in abyss
The cold, blank stare journeying through height’s wind chill
Flying lotus over building tops like umbrellas
You sturdy bag
Secretions in the sky
A dear caught in the headlights
Tranced by virginal blindness
Same white noise
Molten waves erect the young girl of prior skeleton
Her eyeless grin beams down on clouds
A fairy in a lovely sequined dress dances around in ballet shoes at the crime site
Melting bodies
The sun beheads us awkwardly
Gripping grasps in double denim
Red, red wine and ocean sky line
My floor boards, mine that I faithfully crawl on
turn into a ceiling in Mexico
Who stares at a trippy tiled floor all day
Crafty crosses, picture frames and clever clocks
Milky columns, disco balls and neon signs
Endless words like her fair flowing hair
Tippy toes and nosey nose
A shoeless women in red falls backwards into puddles that reflect the parking lots dedicated sky
Landing in a galaxy of her favorite stars
Openly orbiting
Opaque staircases and pac-man lights
Flashy cars and burrowed babes
One day your insight will be outside and realize your toothpaste is poison
And your streets are made of water
That flows in and out of some people and drowns others
Isolation in a cold place
Nasty in nirvana
Pixilated pigeons and rays of golden curly light, pierced nipples and bristled pinkies
Mythic Mariah and Money Mo disasterously tunneled and you are now HERE!
In space with Stewey and the peanuts for Christmas
Shooting bullets of all the best things
Horse shoes, studded hearts, frisky frogs, slender beads, pine trees, penguins and bombs
Another car, another boat
Another day, another dollar
Cowboy, I want to be one strand in your horses mane
One glance in your iceberg oculars
The house you peer in
The world you stand towering above
To light your crystal candles
And show off glistening Brazilian waxes in a tree house
On our own earth
In our own universe
Whorled world, helical hell
Tear drops and lipstick
It begins with an A, its all over your face
Shimmery sunshine summertime
Nice to meet you.
20110221, tumblr piece
He looked like Antenna Man with all of that rainbow in his hair
And his graying beard
Purple tie-die sweater that looks like reflections in a pool
Dialing numbers to have girl talk
Chick chat
Cigarettes on her eyelashes
She bats them and they ash, falling into her banana mouth
They burn holes in her eyes but she still smiles yellow
A forlorned frown disguised as a celebrity smirk
Dark shadows and a ravishing mess of hair
The curtains look like sunrays
And the arms of a pirate hat wearing Octopus
Blow up dolls in inflatable houses
Dr Fucks babies
She stood tall on a drum with a leopard dress and heart leggings
Maybe a floating device around her neck as an accessory
Eccentric I guess
Looking like the Statue of Liberty
A tarp guarded her from the ignorance of the beaming light
Ivy vines crawled to her feet
Pointy and skeletal like fold out chairs
Who has cozy feet anyway?
A lamp illuminated her cat like stare
I think she might be ugly behind all of that tanned skin
I don’t know her but its something about her mouth
The next girl I know very well
She dresses ridiculously when she goes to Happy Endings or Sway or any downtown night
Dances aberrantly and calls it a career
Sometimes she wears Power Ranger earrings and rings made out of beer caps, she tattooed a slice of pizza on her right middle finger, a real New Yorker – maybe.
It all reminds me of the 90s in an awakening and painfully pleasuring way
Unsharpened pencils in unbuttoned shirt pockets
Arnold finally puts different clothes on
It kind of changes my entire world view
Whatever that might be
Candle lit lanterns on stepping stones leading to the happily glowing house
That probably has some amazing Basquiat art hanging on the walls of a relatively recurrent offender
The kind that would have reported the same man for “criminally vandalizing” the exterior walls of his second wife’s apartment twenty years ago
A bore
A whore
I wonder what it was like to be one of Marley’s locks
Or Tupac’s tattoos
Or a sheet of tracing paper
Or a branch in a Christmas tree
Or a noose
Crack’s in a mirror’s reflection reminds me of my dad’s drug addiction
Which reminds me of trusting titles and rusty windows
Like a staircase without handles
Or words spelled with numbers, l1k3 th15
My brain cells are starting to crowd me, like balloons in a two-seater
The expressionist rasta’s … it severely irritates me that Hitler’s name is not red underlined in auto spelling but rasta is. Rastafari is as well. That is total bullshit
Green, yellow and red flag painted in Brooklyn with some hipster bitch spread across it like she knows who Selassie I is or that the “I” in Selassie I is actually the number 1, like number words but real
The bird is pretty fly though
On stage Jimi sets fire to his guitar
Kneeling down in hot red pants looking like the sex god himself
I would have crashed that car too
Never the Chanel bus though, that’s my baby
Really old pencils spelling out the alphabet
All chewed on and clean-shaven
Like Bedford Avenue residents who betray hipsterdom by shaving but still ride around on fixed gears
Under a pastel palette of sorbet skies
And all the balloons in the two-seater are set free
And my brain cells pop like fireworks, I can feel them
They give my forehead little heat splinters
I feel all better now
Richie, Brittany and I whisper sweet nothings nuzzled into each other’s necks
Eating vagina cupcakes in front of your humble door
Shooting secrets about the mystery man on the balcony over yonder
Yester years
I saw you yelling at a plastic woman with a polka dot bag yesterday
I called to see if you’re okay
And if your car is still up in flames, I know it’s a tragedy but can I take pictures?
Roaring lions and boney thugs
Draped in oversized gowns of sport teams
It’s hard not to feel like JayZ circa “Big Pimpin” video when on a Bermuda boat, with beautiful, bottled broads
Then the earth under your feet becomes concave
And you’re waiting in McDonald’s drive through again for new cUntry potatoes
No private planes or cheese buses or cracker platters
I like it this way
Dancing barefoot in basement bashes while rolling a joint on the latest cover of Billboard
That claims Drake is the new face of hip-hop
I’d rather just not talk about it and wear a top hat and a tie on bow instead
Eating my McFancy fries drinking some cool Cola
Studying the bisection of a gold fish
Finding where it’s little heart is located and carefully removing it so I can press it in a book like lavender and have it forever
Reminds me of playing that stressful doctor game, or dutty wining until you land behind the stage paralyzed
Boy, you are an infectious insect
Your light spreads like the 1956 fireball from the detonation of a hydrogen bomb in the South Pacific
Aren’t you handsome
Mad dogs pikachu lips and acid tongue warm her cold teeth
Reflecting the walls windows
Mr T goes anti-alcohol, marijuana, cigarettes, PCP and a robot or something of similar appearance. Yet remains true to pro-love, family, awards, books, the letter A, plants (that aren’t weed leafs – specifically clarified), music notes and stars
The models are druggies
With little bagels that they wear around their naked ring finger as an ode to the single ladies of the world, oh shut up you want a boyfriend so fucking bad
Baggy bohemians and Polish-Irish hybrid skirt babes
One of the most gorgeous women I know with the hair of a gray cloudy beautifully destructive whirlwind walks through a field of yellow flowers
Just her and the sky holding hands
She’s the funky stripes type
I hope we grow old together in our beautiful house with colored windows and grass for floors with groovy couches and ashtrays for dispensing our Sobranie Cocktail rainbow cigarettes, the ones with gold filters
She can wear 70’s sunglasses and drive a babein’ Volkswagen van with RASTA colored interior, because she is just the kind of lady who knows, for example, what the I in Selassie’s name really is
She’s a different crew’s Sunni. What an angelically devilish love child old Sunni Hart
The little imperfection in her smile that makes her perfect
She lent me a 1000+ paged collection of Allen Ginsberg poetry today, I can’t wait to finish swimming in the stream of consciousness so that I could get to that
I thought about how happy I am to be able to have given Clay the amazingly personable Christmas present instead of the tarot cards.
The picture of the Garden of Eden on the Lovers card always reminds me of how the forbidden “apple” was probably a pomegranate and how we used to always eat those together
It’s all kind of ironic actually, after I got my leg garden tattoo the first thing I put on it was his pomegranate lotion
Maybe he was my forbidden apple, glowing gold
Well he definitely was
I could’ve had any other fruit in the gritty garden but he was a teacher and I was his first “black” girl
Whatever
Butterfly shrine stories
I wonder if their caterpillar life plays before them in a sun-ridden hazy flash the moment they morph into a creature with wings, imagine that
Waiting all your life until your last year in which you grow wings and learn how to fly and become a completely different being
I wish I could say I loved the elderly
Most of them have torturous tales of how their metamorphosis failed and they never grew wings
Or did and flew with the best, was on the top of the world – they could feel it and touch it and smell the air up there and then they had to come back down to reality
Or maybe they just stay up there forever
Never coming back down
And die on a cloud happily
The lustrous life of a butterfly lands on a skeletal umbrella when the storm hits
Yes, I was once that butterfly, dreaming I was a man
20110123, Castlemaine
This weekend breathed through me.
Getting out always helps me get back inside myself.
I’ve been so immersed inside the whirlwind, monsooning, flowing depths of my conscious,
that I forget there are other beings in the world who are just as undefined
Spent so much time being disconnected from connections themselves
Last night when Jack was playing guitar on Julian’s balcony, while the sun was rising I watched the clouds and sky become ocean-like.
Watching stars twinkle for the darkness and the last of the moon disappear into the new day,
the music playing for the air
and the sun rising a new,
illuminating the world for us to live and create in its presence.
It all created new air to fill my lungs up with.
/ Watching the stars twinkle for the darkness and the last of the moon disappear into the new day, the music playing for the air alone and the sun rising a new, illuminating the world for us to live, love and create in its presence.