i saw the child today , i saw Julien he wanted to sleep a good long sleep. His little face and those brown eyes reminded me of the child , tiny boy was on 7th. ave.
i miss being loved like i thought i'd love again now alone like those raindrops drenching me with their empathy.
now return to land, return to Earth because it is okay and nobody minds, not in brooklyn.
the roads here are an uncertain path,
a long lost world where souls divide and give you room to breathe.
queens
i see faces of my ansestors hauling heavy bags down the numbered roads.
queens, a place to get lost in the market,
a fresh sense of smell leads me to istambul.
a long forgotten dream.
many people roam , wandering ...
Mina with her newborn babies gives me a reason to chat .
i am alone here but not so far off,
welcome yet restrained.
manhattan
i cannot be alone so i'll get lost again, pretend to.
hours passing slow yet too fast to document.
make believe, a fictious scene in mahattan allows you to see it as reality.
here we go again...
time formula
c+i+im(cr)p
___________ = the hero thinks life, the heroine love, the villian evil
m
drift today not unlke other days,
ask questions to recieve answers.
play a game of bandits in love with outlaws,
to occupy time.
time in my head, in my day.
the time until i see you standing before me clearly and alone.
there is a formula
the elements sift through the hour glass.
time, nothing but...
waiting for it to pass.
sail today unlike other days,
reading the paper of unwanted cries.
read to recieve answers and questions.
play a game of gypsies in love with pirates,
to occupy my time.
time in my head, in my day.
there is a formula
the elements sift through the hour glass.
time nothing but...
waiting for it to pass.
created something today, not unlike yesterday
create to gain the insight.
play a game with my heart in love with my soul.
to occupy my time, my mind.
until i see you standing before me clearly and alone.
seven days
the first day i found fingers in the evelope. four smooth glass fingers arrived safely, but you letter was broken. it shattered on the way. i cut my hand on slivers of your words.
*
the second day you sent me a sigh frozen in black glass. when i opened the box it melted to blue smoke and floated to the ceiling. a single drop of blood fell on my palm.
*
the third day i touched your amputated heart. i unwrapped the silver paper and gently stroked it. all day i sucked my blood-stained fingers. it was like tasting you.
*
the fourth day you sent me the web of your silence. fragmented words struggled hopelessly against invisible spiders. i sat still and ran my fingers across my throat.
*
the fifth day my eyes filled with green fog. i could only feel what you sent me, the supple curve of a night of red lightning and sweat. i breathed in your deep body scent.
*
the sixth day my body was ice. you sent me an ice pick made of black pearl and i stabbed my chest until small drops of blood fell down my belly like tears.
*
the seventh day the sky cracked open and your body slid through the crevices of the broken clouds. i reached out to you, passion squirming through my hair like black and red snakes.
1.98
there are more people on these trails than out on the roads. i'm looking for a stone, perch on one of these ledges i once watched from. its good to be back here, witch hair moss on the oaks. it is no longer strange for me to drive on this side of the road, i'm losing the tiny accent and that place is becoming less a part of me, just images on film, and i wish they hadn't been watching. i'm going looking for that stone.
1.98
be quiet tonight, walk these wheels through robinson canyon make the rolling like running water, wait for it to rain again, wait unconscious for northern bombs.
1.98
boys with trucks watch me in traffic. cassandra i know you better now. Find myself in the morning on the road broken open, passing trains and the sun rises behind me in mirrors. no signs for the stateline, weaving california and oregon.
1.98
same dark cat in the corner, can't get out the window? you're the first shadow i've seen here. I wish i had felt this when i was ten, the weight of my body now a woman's, hooded grey, boots and the same tea i'd take on my first trip alone at sixteen, even then i wish i'd felt this. i remember once in the toilet drawing my age in the air, reversible, either six or nine so i'd remember being that old forever.
1.98
he once told me when i was alone out there to lay back, let my hair grow roots in the soil, it'll be familiar.
was that stone-carver who bailed the Paris art scene part of that life? dying like a wolf on a ledge being the ideal? so many of the dreamers want to die invisible, Ana, to lie under the sky, empty of life, eaten away to bone by bird or cat. bones burned by the sun and dispersed as another grain among deserts. don't fear it, no box or stone indicators could mark the souls still and the place echoes anyway, does it not?
zippers inside and inside again, echoes/imprints on the outsensual, almost vulgar but i'll paint the surface so gorgeous for you, Sign: TOUCH THE ART, rub as you did the sheelas, for luck or your own reasons; i want you to see beauty not fear her, in all her forms. experience, answer some questions maybe teach us our culture the way you see. art is not pristine. tactile creatures, we touch to understand, for comfort, a way of knowing by body, to give, if anything if nothing more a contact. relate if only to this to the artist to the things which pass through and haunt out dreams.
you treated me like a princess but i didn't understand, i thought about you later
they closed down the side show
tore down the tent.
now all the freaks are on the dole.
i used to have a good job, Dad!
i used to be a star!
the record store boy was standing on his own island,
i didn't think to reach out,
even when he laid his cloak down.
sexuality. honesty. the truth. intimacy.
openess. giving. loving. lover. dreamer.
charmer. brightest constellation.
take me in your arms.
I search for the truth.
while I know not where this search
will take me, I do know that I've
finally begun and will not stop.
I guess as a result of being loved
and hurt, at least I am much
more aware of what/who I truly
desire.
I can articulate my desire
which oddly enough I could not do before.
