Haiku War...

Sad Zombie:
Wondering through death

lost, lingering among lives,

devouring them.

Awkward Moments:

Stale silence stranded

like burnt orange paint on the wall

caked, and hollow.

Fresh Prince of Bell Air:

Just shooting B-ball

and suddenly you're filthy rich

willow whips her hair

Happy Marriage

Happy Marriage 

My life, like a sandbar,
has been taken over by a monster of a man
who wants my body under  his control
so that, if he wishes,
he can spit in my face,
slap me on the  cheek,
pinch my rear;
so that, if he wishes,
he can rob me of the clothes,
take my naked beauty in his grip;
so that, if he wishes.
he can chain my feet,
with no qualms whatsoever whip me,
chop off my hands, my  fingers,
sprinkle salt in the open wound,
throw ground-up black pepper in my eyes,
with a dagger can slash  my thigh,
can string me up and  hang me.

His goal: to control my heart
so that I would love him;
in my lonely house at night
sleepless, full of anxiety,
clutching at the window grille,
I would wait for him and sob;
tears rolling down, I would bake homemade bread,
would drink, as if they were ambrosia,
the filthy liquids of his polygynous body
so that, loving him, I would melt like wax,
not turning my eyes toward any other man.
I would give proof of my chastity all my life.

So that, loving  him,
on some moonlit night
I would commit suicide
in a fit of ecstasy.


-Taslima Nasrin-

I will write myself out...

I recall times when I
Would tell myself
I got myself into this
I will write myself out

With you and I
I plan to conceive
Something different
You will know it

By the imperfect
Fingerprints
Left
Against the window

Of your dreams
As I prowl
My way
Through this reality

Licking Smirks

Licking Smirks
She lays stretched thin,
her paws draped
almost weightless, over the edge
of the bed, toes curled, back
arched, belly exposed
waiting to be tickled.

His finger slides like a pen
over her smooth pages. Pulsating
blue ink crinkle
along the sheets,
crumpling her softness.

She writes
line after line
of nothingness
along his back.
Jagged red letters
dug deep
into flesh.

They’ve rewritten
and edited
the lines of this story
the ending remaining the same.

Exhaustion
mixed with licking smirks
lapping
at their ink stained fingertips
like a cat to milk.

Talk Poetry to me Billy

“Vade Mecum

I want the scissors to be sharp
and the table perfectly level
when you cut me out of my life
and paste me in that book you always carry.”

-Billy Collins-

Inches from falling I catch myself...

... sugary sweet words
lingering on the tip
of his tongue
as he brushes
paintstrokes
across my lips
my cheek
my ear. 
Intoxicatingly disarming
stripping layer upon layer
of bared wire and stone
from my core
like pieces of clothing 
ripped and strung
across broken lamp shades...


It's a work in progress. Man I love things with promise... :)

Untitled

The shadows of the clouds outside form into blank spaces beneath pink and orange shades. They glow on slick wood surfaces. Untouchable, unstained like our voices.

Written 6-7-08

Behind those double A's 
I found 
a twelve step program 
down. 

Step 1: Jim. 
Step 2: Jack. 
Step 3: Jerry.

I began to believe 
Jesus was a man 
in a baseball cap with his lips 
on my ear lobe 
as if he was trying 
to whistle but has forgotten 
how. Huffy, sugary 

lingers on his voice 
as he leads me down, 
down, down the street. 

His finger prints burn into my flesh. 
Branded, I still notice 
his purple touch 
two years later 
and smile 
at my own reckless abandonment. 

Lust is swollen thighs  
loss of breath, tangled, 
torn and tainted 
then tame in a foggy moment 
when all has been said. 

Aspiration

A good friend of mine invited me to an open mic night, poetry reading next weekend. He also sent me a link of the kind of women who read at this event.



I feel highly intimidated. These women's words are so strong, and flow with such ease proudly, without an ounce of hesitation.

I once walked with them on damp dark pavement, the crispness of truth extending from ink stained fingertips.

Now I linger in the shadows, watching them with eager anticipation, reminding me of when I was a child and I'd watch my mother put on her eyeliner, dreaming of the day when I would be a woman.

Brutal Honesty

You Ask Why Sometimes I Say Stop

You ask why sometimes I say stop
why sometimes I cry no
while I shake with pleasure.
What do I fear, you ask,
why don't I always want to come
and come again to that molten
deep sea center where the nerves
fuse open and the brain
and body shine with a black wordless light
fluorescent and heaving like plankton.

If you turn over the old refuse
of sexual slang, the worn buttons
of language, you find men
talk of spending and women
of dying.

You come in a torrent and ease
into limpness. Pleasure takes me
farther and farther from the shore
in a series of breakers, each
towering higher before it
crashes and spills flat.

I am open then as a palm held out,
open as a sunflower, without
crust, without shelter, without
skin, hideless and unhidden.
How can I let you ride
so far into me and not fear?

Helpless as a burning city,
how can I ignore that the extremes
of pleasure are fire storms
that leave a vacuum into which
dangerous feelings (tenderness,
affection, l o v e) may rush
like gale force winds.

-Marge Piercy-

Something is better than nothing.

Shattered promises
torn at corners
like broken pieces 
scattered across hardwood floors.
Illusions linger in the shards,
flirting their way into the crevices
of my fingertips.
It seeps into my blood stream,
like venom tainting
the well oiled machine 
I have created in the wake
of sunlight on an empty bedspread. 
Broken.
I crumple across the floor 
and force a connection with the reflection 
scattered beneath me. 
The girl who was.
The girl who is.
The girl who should have...

You wouldn't believe me if I told you...

Flesh
with it's constant motion
like a humming bird
fluttering frantically, 

seeking a connection 
to the blue
sky that expands
with each
exhausted breath. 

Melt 
into the carbon
fibers lingering along,
inch by inch,
tickling like the finger tips
of a stranger.
Heavy, 

Weave into them
like patchwork, mending brokenness
in the silent still moment
when i inject my veins with poetry

and drift 
like wheels on the pavement.

Just What My Morning Needed.... a little poetry

"You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
call to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting –
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things."
— Mary Oliver

...Power...

I've been on a bit of a Fleetwood Mac kick the past few days. I've always loved their lyrics and the raw passion behind their music. Lovers won and relationships lost. Friendships broken and betrayals. It's all the allure of daytime TV soap operas without the unexplained resurrections and family feuds.

I don't know what it is about their music that balances me. Maybe it's because it reminds me of my Sophomore year of college when I roomed with a girl who sang in a Fleetwood Mac Tribute band. I spent the majority of that year locked in my room, writing, and falling in love for the first time.

Maybe it's because of how much Gene idolized Stevie Nicks. With her big black boots and curves she was a woman for me to look up to when I was younger. Strong. Proud. Independent. Self-aware. Talented. She is still someone to marvel at. I remember listening to her sultry voice on car rides when Gene would roll down the windows and stare out at the country side. I'd lean into the wind, letting it rip my hair violently as I imagined what it would be like to feel love and feel loss like that. Eagerly anticipating the battle wounds that would mark my adulthood.

In a lot of ways the title of this blog was inspired by Fleetwood Mac. Gypsy.

Strange how the strangest things can give you strength when you least expect it... but when you need it the most.


"Women, they will come and they will go. When the rain washes you clean you'll know."

I hope some day I can bend, as far as it takes to understand, and risk breaking open again...

Two nights ago I sat in the wee hours of the morning, twisting my hands together in anger. My neck was tense and my back ached with the fire that fueled me. I was hurt. I felt betrayed. And I could not breathe because the very presence of breath in my lungs twisted into the sickness in my stomach and just expanded like some kind of bad science project.

Last night I sat in the wee hours of the morning, twisting my hands together in fear. My neck was tense and my back ached with the gray numbness that filled me. I was shocked. I felt alone. And I could not breathe because the very presence of breath in my lungs twisted with the anxiety in my stomach and just expanded like some miss shaped cake.

Life changes in a moment. And suddenly, every thing comes into a clear perceptive. The things that weighed on you don't seem so heavy under the pressure of something worse. Something unalterable. Something that can not be fixed. A pain that will not fade in time. Something that someone can't "make up to you."

Nothing. Else. Mattered.

And so as I sat in the wee hours of the morning, twisting my hands together I wanted one thing... him there to steady them. Him there to ease the tension in my neck and wrap his arms around my back so that it no longer ached. I would feel safe. I would feel calm. And my breathe would steady into rhythm with his as sleep finally took over, like a fairy casting a spell on my dreams.

Ink Stained Fingertips

I have ink stained fingertips
where your lips use to be.
Memory has seeped into my bones
and crept up the length of my arm;
cramps that resembles an ice cube on the tip of your tongue
August, in the park.
My body remains youthful, but my hands
resemble an old woman
brittle beneath the surface from knowledge,
passion, lust greed.
I have created worlds from these hands,
baring children from my palm.
I write and bleed black on the page
in desperation, to release you from me.
Club soda and paint thinner can’t remove these stains.

My Rubber Soul

Written April 2007

My Rubber Soul

The abyss awaits me.

There is something comforting

about the sulfur

like chocolate-chip cookies

on Saturday Morning.

It smells like Marlboro Reds

$2 beer and temptation.

I try to ignore the call

of smoky darkness.

The thought of his hands

like a pen on my blank pages

creating a history

from my silence.

It’s a longing

self-destruction. The wrecking-ball

waiting to rip through my home.

He sees me,

sees disloyalty like a tattoo

through the haze of red, green,

purple. Jazz singing my blues.