Why Hello There

It seems that you have stumbled upon this site, for which I have no answer as to why you are here. All I have for you are more questions. Questions upon questions upon questions. So, if you don’t want to think, or you expect some kind of answer, then run little one. Run very quickly away. For this is not the place for you, and you have stumbled into an ever expanding mind with no foreseeable exit.

Vaginas are Coffee

I have learned this,
I am educated,
and,
therefore,
it must be fact.

Vaginas
are
coffee

consumable when
cold, warm, iced, or far above the legally consumable limit
served sweet, bitter, and/or a little milky
(maybe very milky)
fat-whole-soy-a little bit of skim

add a little bit of flavor
and stir the stick
swirl the spoon
watch as it slips beneath the surface
the precision of gingerly lapping
at the freezing  burn
fingering beneath the miniscus

Vaginas
are
coffee

Crying Space

I so desperately need a crying space free wife

to unleash the emotions rather than end on lightning wings

in a public façade where everyone sees bird teeth

something is wrong narrow star

nothing is wrong amber tongue

don’t you see

I am polished fear

making space for nightmare champagne

emotions of the trills from distant hills

turning toward grey sky

 

Wherever you are dawn bright

whenever you come back vermillion moon

I wait

handwriting like eyelashes

 

But

I need to make space for you

when you do

and to do that

I so desperately need to cry.

Unleash scissor threads

down my face

charcoal cuts

near my eyes

reminding me

that if I cry

I can smile

and I can make space for you

I am Crawded by Time

I was late today because I was on the phone with my sister planning a two week trip around Europe. We haven’t seen each other in four months. Way too long considering we lived an hour away from each other, more like ten states, or two vodka shots, or one broken jeep and a trench full of rain from each other. I was late today to plan for some sisterhood. I was late today to make time for myself, herself, and ourselves. I am late today which on other days isn’t late.

 

Other days, it’s thirty minutes right on time. Other days, it’s a photograph of two lovers embracing in momentary perfection. Two pints in one conversation. A biographical account and a pitied confession. On other days, I wouldn’t be late today. But you see, it started because my sister and I are planning a trip, and our minds are already on vacation. We are already freed from the “traditional” form of life (if there is such a thing!), and we have been freed from the inescapable: time.

 

So I am not late today,

and I won’t be considered late

today

tomorrow.

Ha! Poetry

Ha! Poetry is what?

Comparing a flower to the complexity of a woman’s face?

Taking the magnificence of a sunset and lowering it down to the level of a canvas’s paints?

Or taking something catastrophic like a combusting star and comparing it to a high schooler’s day?

Or is it the ability to rhyme?

To be able to chime, 

with other words,

so that it flows like a song sung by birds.

Or is it finding something small?

Something not really there at all,

and bringing it to life

with such expression that one begins to cry.

Or is it made to make one shout?

To speak against the trends, 

the ongoing bends

in the road,

never righting itself?

Well then, I must be a poet.

 

(Originally published in Toyon magazine 2005)

Who are the People that would Believe Me?

Who are the people that tell you yes?
Who are the people that tell you no?
Who are the people that tell you to be?
Who are the people that tell you to be anything but?
Who are the people that make you?
Break you?
Throw you?
Lift you?
Who are the people that are there when you are most alone?
Most alive?
Mostly living alone?
Who are the people that see you?
Who are the people that hear you?
Who are the people that understand you?
Who are the people that would believe this?

When I was a little girl, a spirit followed me to Las Vegas. Running alongside the moving truck, it’s legs twisting into wings, it howled, “write damn you!”

It slithered into the clouds as I turned to tell my mother.

“That’s a nice story sweetie, and don’t say damn.”

Where are the people who would believe this?

 

Smog and Surreal

I awake.

Smog and sounds of the city.

I am alone here.

But,

perhaps,

I will see you again

in the surreal plane

of the reality

we will make together.