my window breaks the rays
that come in colors everywhere
shadows on the carpet
tricks with my eyes
sink into the cloth of a dead man's chair
and pray for sufficient mercy
to get me by . . .

loss of heart
gain of love
which feels the worst?

oh brave tower o babble, bring me the Gilgamesh's of your countries history. let me wade in the waters of your most profound. . . our aspirations have been split open, on a wood stove, stirring hot soup while writing our forefathers fevers in steno notebooks ground in black ink to be rained away by some april flowers, bringing the hydrating showers, peresphone returning to her mother's hands.
these brief slices of civilization folding in on our daydreams of glorious rendevous with some cosmos much bigger than the now of it all. immediate gratiyoufuckedup. cheek gashes to gashes we all destroy our creators.

digging away, the moments . . . .

Enkidu, i wouldn't feel the need to change you. you could come and go and i would nestle, slow, into the barbaric bow of your soul . . . Enkidu, take me, as your Shamhat, without the fear that you will leave my bed a changed spirit, i accept you all, my vicious . . .

there walks a lady we all know . . . .

never ever saw the stars so bright ~
every man returns to dust ~

wrapped in the sari of my study, my liter.art.ure, dripping from my veins i've opened to either embrace or condemn . . . wishing i didnt have to work tomorrow to explore this tunnel of my insight.

random creatives on old men in the ozarks diggin for ginseng suffering pains of bad hearts, and no money for prescriptions resorting to the faith of what they sow. heard an entire dialouge of one of them, with a welfare woman . . . and him hobbling off back into his woods.

tire.

The ducks have frozen
Like holden
Promised
Their little webs stuck
Eternal
In the ice of central park

Oh calm explorer
May you divide and conquer
The continent of my flesh
With two hands
And tongue

Stake your claim
Your past
My present
Navigate me
Until I am found

feels so good
so free
so right
i know we aint gonna change our minds about it . . . .
here comes my girl.

she's all i need tonight.

oh tom. my petty. my illuminated face, in the grass on a starry saratoga sky.
remembrance of oh tom. my petty. 19th birthday. here, a few feet away. my hands around heather's arms, jack's arms around me, swaying. beauty.
like youth. and yonder. and yours truly, content.

had to move on, a moment to share the tobassco donkeys . . . pickin wonderful. scape of west coast, scape of green hat that covers my face, scape of salt never leaving wonderous places on our month old bodies . . . .

'always marry an ugly girl, cause that's the only kind, she'll never ever leave you, and if she does you wont mind' . . . .

moved from thoughtful to silly. quickly.

what the bleep do i know?
want to explode from the chest, but also want to hold it close and warm.

my electrons go firing into my neutrons and all the ons turn off and my film stops, at one place, that i have memorized and analyzed for years . . .saying im over it, saying im past it, saying im through it, and still fidgeting . . . with comparison. with hurt that has yet to even present. the expectation in the used to. sadness based on nothing i could have changed, and that's the hardest part . . . can't regret that which i do not cause, but still have something spring from it that i might want to erase. . .

i dont know how im going to tell you
i can't play with you no more
moved on to the led zepplin . . . thoughtful of it . .. . conscious of every word and relation it brings. "could it be you found another game to play, what did mama say to me, that's the way, it oughta be, mama said thats the way it oughta stay, oooh" . . . .
the rain has stopped, i've opened my shutters, the house quiet and still . . .
"so i say to you that nothing really matters, and all you do is stand and cry, i dont know what to say about it"
want to motivate to pack up what i want to bring, to take, to live alone with. to bury in my own cave for my winter of hibernation away from the noise, and the buzz of emotion, and thought and feeling . .. . the winter, my arch of sensitivity, will be a beautiful time to separate myself and explore that.

". . . i listen to my words but they fall far below, i let my music takes me where my heart wants to go, i swam upon the devil's lake, but never never never, i'll never make the same mistake . . ."

moments passed.
moved onto
the dead.
5-26-72

how many times will this become full, like all my pages become, full and i highlight and delete. keep my finger zoomed in on the x that takes it all to silence.?. no trace i was ever here at all. . .

on shattered roof shingles we woke up in our dance dresses, your finger petting mine, listening to a river we've memorized lick the bottom of your father's dusty boat. we promised silent and with eyes close, to not forget this. . . . not forget that. girl mouth in my girl mouth waiting for the world to wake up with us. my azucar honey muffin kind of piece of chaos. after i climbed down the ladder into your bedroom, you gave me a cigarette and lit it for me. i drove home with the sunrise shining in my rearview.

if i beg you to stop. could you? the neon light on my heart attacks with care, "no vacancy" . . .

my mother earth soaks up this rain. she grins like a little girl, hands muddy, eyes wide, blue, pupils dilated under the glow of a moon she decorated . . .

dancing is my verb.

i am here, not opposed to finding something more about me of worth to others. the entricate details that shall one day possibly come radiating from within. be who i am. am i who, be? i be who am. i be am who.

in a studio, my voice on the speaker, my fingers on guitar strings snapping a second from my words, and i was just broken, i was just healing, i knew not what i was saying . . . and you came in, all lanky and boy, so young and tortured . . . and my cousin she was so pissed, her young heart jealous . . . and you wouldn't stop listening, or memorizing, or focusing . . . and she was so beautiful and such a female, not angry at the likes of hearts and hope . . . and she was so brave and fortunate . . . and she was so happy to not admit i was with her, so content with chain smoking and reading glamour. at the end, you kissed my cheek and i dedicated it to her.

the night of a thousand stars. and the addiction to hear america. the gentle guitar, the gentle drum, the gentle idea of questioning . . . "michigan seems like a dream to me now. .. . it took me four days to hitchhike" . . . all a dream. "laughing on the bus, play games with the faces" . . . and there i was, hundred miles from home, my heart invaded on a mile of many . . . .

gonna name a child i have to a groovy beat, when the people hear it they'll wanna dance. . . . it will be it's own peaceful riot.

govt mule new years eve. rounding out the confetti with the shove of my hips. my skirt feeling like an ocean around me, the stage a thousand colors and every body has some sorta smile stained on. encore to walk 86 blocks in 2 minutes, of garbage bang, and laugh, my trip so fast i can't my trip so fast . . . sink into the back of another dancefloor, put my hands together and let ice explode in and out of mouth . . . . share my wealth of concentration and then twirl back to the guitars and trumpets . . . . oh this galaxy sure does like my kind.


what a random triumphant collection of things to say. nothing fits but what the music brings as the song changes.

nashville . . . old station inn. random monday. bluegrass collection. men tall and short, fat and thin, old and older gather, sit in their circle and play their banjos made of golden twine . . . words of gold, and women, love and cold winters . . . my soul changed every note, their jagged wrinkled fingers not taking a breath . . . when one would head home another would have arrived and sat down. then i found him. tall, proud, smiling awkward at his own abilities and following the room's lead, and when he sang, i heard an angel. something beyond what was touchable, something so much like my grandfather. for an hour or more, couldn't take my eyes off him, for an hour or more, i cried in the back of the room at my picnic table and corona. wished it years earlier, wanting to run home.

oddly for the first time, as i love both, i've just found an amazing connection between the character of friend of the devil and neal. so similiar . . . running from the law in nevada for stealing cars, had a few wives, his women had babes he disbeliefed as his, i bet he cried each night . . . borrowed from the devil. oh dear, neal.

we can put the tent in the trunk with the matches and our sleeping bags. i'll put oil in the car if you run into the store and get me some sort of cheap beer to pass the night away beside a fire someplace on a backroad near missouri. we'll eat peanut butter sandwiches and smoke our minds figuring out the solars system, placing our synergy somewhere in the stars, making up a constellation for it, on the bookbags of clothes we can lay our heads. and when im not comfortable you can offer me a pair of pants to put in my bag for more cushion and when you're cold i'll slip up behind you and cover you with my breath and arm. the sun will rise on your face and when you wake i'll have already heated the water for the green tea. you kiss my neck, there are birds we dont recognize and you comment on how much you like the salt of me. no more taxes. just searching for some piece of self in the earth . . . on the earth. wandering aimlessly aimed. thanks for comin.


oh the blossoming gin. nothing says optimistic like a 1 a/m rush of the new miserable experience.
. . . . you can trust me not to think, and not to sleep around, if you dont expect too much from me you might not be let down . . .
oh thinking of laying in bed at 13 listening to this tape, as the night was on and i was supposed to be sleeping, educating myself on the rules of cheating and drinking

want to go out dancing now. dress up nicer and be in a group i dont know and close my eyes, feel the heat of the room over my arms and focus on nothing but the bass line . . .

have i rambled enough?

no glue to stick this . . . cept some of this lou reed rambling to me too. we are all such random storytellers. wanting to get it out before it just snaps back into the vault.

strung out on a silver piece of his. a chevy something. my hair sweaty sticking to the windshield, my barefeet toeing the chrome, he strumming a broken guitar. my grandmother's birdbath reflecting the moon, and my ovaries opening up for some sort of creation that night. i cleared my throat, "jacky she is just speeding away, thought she was james dean for a day, then you know she had to crash . . . ."

going to write something together now that i got this excessive off my obsessive.

to lose, laura's trek

is to
and pull back
on some dada
tzarly, he drew blood first
idea.r.lly
breton lied to you,
said words would never
hurt you
or he meant me
cause my sticks are breaking under your stones
that are breaking
we all fall down
giggle, wiggle, wriggle up into another's jumpsuit
throw yer
man - goes
at the stage
all chest hair
and chest stare
moulin rouge smeared all over our cheeks
doctorate in doctoring
the doctorless doctors
that need some assistance getting their finances spent
da
da
wont you
come back
and show me where you sleep
so that i might follow you
back
and watch you
d
e
e
p. dont dangle no key
in front of me.
we can wear high heels
and when andy mr. war whore
is coming of age
break every ounce
of dig.nitty he got
then write it all down
in our
da-u-script black book.

.for the etch etched etching.

Rush on words, and flesh
Touching
Nearing infinity
Under fog and finger
Prints
Developed, with tongues rolling
Where they wish to roam
And when
.
And how does your garden grow?
With rusty rockers
Sweeping over all those dandy.lion.heads
Sucking the bitter roots
Of a purple plush
As sun sets
Colors all over your arms
.
Full of
Heat
Walls drip
Down my hands
To my wrists
Inspiration.
Flowing.
Over a sea of holy
Quiet mattress
.
My flag I fly
Ripe color wonderful
Irie.descent. Abs. Distracted.
Rippled on curve of moan
Come
Half mast
Another orgas,mmm

i want to find you waiting for me, with no words, and know exactly what you're saying,
fumble in the coil of definition until it dedicates itself to me,
in a stairwell dark
waiting for a bulb
to illuminate the rainy window
gathering reflection
of our fresh bodies
without all these hesitatations
i might sound so
perfect.

i can taste what's to come
on the pores
that open and close
with midnights
and fall
moon and fingers

when i sail my ship to tangiers
i can promise
letters. signed with love,
your sugar mama piece of fire
and fortune
.
that sticks in metal clasp
for thirty years to come
.
from diner payphones
16 dollars i'll fidget with
to call
to hear your voice on the machine
'no one can take your call right now'
not no one,
that's not what you meant
you
unless.
there is someone else there
unless
tangiers was just too far for you to love
.

eventually she'll start
hiding the postcards
under the porch
for the weather and dust to suffer
you'll never
know
and i'll
kind of
know

until we are both
132 years old
waltzing on age and wisdom
ink stained & rambling like moths toward the light
of the other
it's so cold in October
sometimes
might as well
find this fortune
worth the stay

dont love me more than this

.

a ple.thor.a of thought.s

i string my souls guitar
and play it for myself
late at night
buying myself beers
in my head
trying to get myself
in bed
complimenting the nature of my gaze
cornering me, feeling up my thigh

.

i wake up to write. and i dont know why. seems uncoditional in it's undefinable nature.

.
i want to be hugged. for a pretty long time this time.
.

turnpike sutra
what a way to go
washer fluid run up
rain lifts and separates
holy toll
this whole piece of wisdom
is just ash
from my vague cigarette
glowing aimless
east of peace. behind a memory to embrace, independently.

my ink i prefer black, thin weave of drunk haze inspired crave, can't stand to obey the lines. should have gathered white paper, without lines to not attract my fall shorts.

if i wear shorts, in the fall.... men stare imagining my legs hairless wrapped engaged around their hips some sort of moan escaping some sort of lips, never mine. assholes. fall shorts.

jukebox mantra. tom petty. a voice i know. honey take me through the night. break down. driving fast at midnight later february , dirt roads, caked in ice and something still sticky on my thigh. no room at the inn. i was allowed a moment, then to the cold, with all the other bitches. howling. listening in and out of naive tears, and this voice.. . realizing i had to turn my heart off. live for the bodily pleasures. simplicity in touch me. and then, turn cold. dont show it hurts.

beer glasses reused without being cleaned. taste guiness over my tall gin. my thin shard aching with careless layer. messy, i am, apologetic.

but, what if this is my last testament?

i once read that the only way to write is write as though there was a loaded gun at your head . . .

ive been lazy, i have forgotten that. i have been lazy in a lot of ways.

later . . . .

more, together.
mind full of where i've been, where i should be, where. how i should beware.
am i.
s
u
r
r
end
r
to emotion and wanting to fill a question.

crave excitement. fear the consequences that the unknown often brings yet wanting to let down my walls and just . . .stay the night. something so simple taking so much mind. i feel here. but i want to feel there. somewhere with someone that amuses me. someone i dont have to stimulate first. shut me up for ten minutes and to retain my flittering attentions.

want to say more. afraid of hearing it aloud.

just want to find a decent chunk of peace.

on rainy mornings wake wrapped in a sheet, dizzy on dream and senses. coffee in bed, world domination and comment on how beautiful would taste if beautiful were a fruit.

my head aches. voices. radio. tv. rain. pulse. say. said.

am i wearing the pieces of my heart that are left, on my sleeve? am i craving hoping it will be kindness? that what matters. i agree. but so does reality. and im not cohesive, im not easily taken. im not sure of anything. that's not fair either.

there are other things to think about . . .

listening to hot tuna, on ye olde player o records . . .makes me want to smile, dance . .. .

this space intentionally left blank.

i roam.
my eye is my cage
i go weak
i wake, wired
aged
ram me
against what makes
you

steal the machine
from a mother's dusty attic
and
while i learn to downshift
you drink pinot and build a silver reminder
of all
we bite our bottom lips about.
oh elvis in your fat suit
serve us up some matrimony
flashed in black and white
history on a delicious mattress in a field
of unfamiliar

love.

vicious and wired.

winter isn't my season. the dark creeps treason. erupting condition. no sides on reason.

rewind & acknowledge. the foliage the fall we met.
take it as is and make it as was.

he has the most beautiful smile. catalyst eyes. starting war and peace. simultaneous. hold me at arms length and dont let go.

confusion wrapped fusion. my heart never felt so bruised. it threatens to fade & i listen, never moving to heal.

the black unsettles my blue, turns her into me - this truth, is that im new. not who, i used, to, be. someone more like me. less like you.

i bury
love
in my backyard
unmarked
dont want to find it
anymore.

wide. three pillows over. short. printed floral & lazy. hours. mine. time. this. fine. . . . . . turning in on the details. the delicious. the delirious. dance. drink, slow, and obvious, hair falling all around . . . spin twirl ours yours . . . . a piece of laughter and streetlight shadows, swivel over flesh and fortunate.ness. sink in. sleep. steep. wake to whim. nuzzle the sunrise. eyes. surprise. diner maps & rock lobsters. swimming toward silly and coffee swirl. ride, train heading north into caves with no names and trails with ladders, lift my boots, up, up, savor. no cohesive. just there and out. some thinks to think, about.