I'm learning how to become personal again:
normal

We wanted to become normal. Transform from
rare jungle orchids (wilting and blackening at touch)
to fields of golden wheat in abundance
so our love could be harvested

So I bruised my altar, burnt my wings and
I filled my belly with toast
and my face with flesh
lips and wine and the local market and
pillows shaped like you

This second life
is much like the first
except the glasses are clean
and I can hear the sound of
leaves breaking in the wind, rice
popping, insects knees

Back and forth
we are always traveling from one
beat to the next, pressing two fingers
against the neck for the red:
there is no place Dorthy

These are lyrics to my new song. It SOUNDS much different than it reads: very etheral, slightly folky, and haunting. I'll post a recording of this soon. I might just post a very rough version because I like the idea of capturing it in it's rawness.


This poem is about moonlight and morning sunlight, my real lovers that lay
in my bed with me, that see me to sleep and watch me rise. We "break" when I fall asleep or when I get out of bed and start my day.
The part about paying isn't necessarily about paying with money, it's more about paying with time.
I'd rather sleep alone with the moon and the sun, even it gets a little lonely, and wait for my universe to collide with another universe and our stars become one.



I have a lover
he brings me wine
covered in silver
silken thread so fine

we break
in the midnight hours
we break
in the midnight hours

I have a lover
he brings sunshine
though eastern window
golden leaves of time
we break
in the afternoon
we break in the afternoon
we break in the afternoon
we break in the afternoon

you can pay for a lover
but you can't pay for love


I have a lover
he brings love light

The Crystal Glasses

I started drinking again: coffee in the morning; white wine at night.
I started eating too: toast and marmalade, 3 times a day.
I started sleeping as well: a cat curling up into a ball of and on strobe eyes.
I started to dream: of kissing.

1.
First milk, then rice milk, then goat milk, then almond milk: in my coffee, sil vous plait.
No wine, no thank you, yes, now yes, of course, the glass is crystal
I mopped the floors and licked my fingers
and played them like electric cherries
magenta

2.
One slice, oh yes, another, with butter?

3.
At first the rain was an excuse
but after the sun changed clothes
My eyelids were still drenched
the laundry was slowly drying
in the humidity, the garden was


I cleaned the glasses and arranged them neatly in front of the mirror. In the morning I found them drying in the sink again.
I had forgotten they belonged in the glass cabinet built into the wall. The display of small white cups and metal objects went victorian, like a dollhouse parlor. Each one was a lady china standing with full skirt open ready to be flipped and tickled by thick mustaches.

This home sounds of mother in the kitchen, father sucking at his tooth. I remember the days of waiting and feeding history. I thought
for all the love
for all the love
I'm still speechless at the train station
holding an umbrella above my head
like hand over mouth
the clear blue sky searching
for my scalp

the weather man said there would be rain, eventually
gripping white knuckle to black handle
gold to palm
(the preacher kisses his wife and children
and puts his shoes on upside down)

4.
If I knew how
I would like to
walk in the mud, with fresh pink lips

it is in the brambles of love
do I find my heart caught
on certain small thorns from those
blossoming rosebuds
that scent so sweetly
and center kiss
at dusk
before closing up tight I am
(only)
tugging at thorns in the dark:
my blood is the same hue

I couldn't pluck the rose
no matter how much I would love
to watch it drink at my table
to smell its wide open
but if the rose were to pluck me
I'd happily sing till my last petal
fell velvet sweet death

The Mosquito

I killed the mosquito. We decided it was okay to do it.

Elephants beat at flies, volcanoes burn and bubble, trees fall and a spine is snapped,
monkeys spear bushbabies in their sleep.
First no, then yes! YES! It bit me earlier and I was itching,
hearing it's tiny wings whine: diseases sleep us you the future blood on my pillow
an open window welts mothers tiny arms needles in black fur
the open chest cavity the liquid
(it was shimmering, quivering the exposed heart afraid and alive)
and your ovens: rosemary and butter, my hands under skin
rubbing cool autumn in with surgical gloves salt eyes
brushing my face against the collar like making love to flowers
the secret corridor in the castle pushing up against the chair
I kept thinking there was more of you, even though you had left
kept crawling back into the bed with the light guillotine

Could we sit at the table, get to know one another first?

I felt mosquito wings on my cheek,
a very soft and gentle wind, like cat paw.
You were just tiny and delicate, hungry for something you needed,
hungry for me because I happened to be there
under the lamp, in the light.

There are more on the ceiling.
There will always be more, in the warm and the wet.
You forgot, didn't you?
Lemongrass and screens, honey.
Protect yourself.
We do the most damage.