I want to swim in the clear, blue wide pool
But I'm use to the still stillness of open lakes
-the full green vines of bushes around
-the sweet thick musk of dew
-around is all natural
I kissed the shallow bottoms of rivers, smooth
-a constant flow of red cool
-a rush of needed movement
-perfect for life
I've dreamed of opaque oceans
-afraid of the body consuming wave, large
-Intrigued by the dark clouds, rains, lightening, a storm that may brew
-I'm unsure a dense body can float.
I want to swim in a pool
-trimmed
-clean, toxic to taste
-wind-whipped, unabashed.
Monday, October 18, 2010
G-r-r-r-r-reat more than Good
Hey Tony!
I like the things you do
Hey Tony!
You’re sitting in my bowl
A factory in China made this bowl,
But luckily it is blue
See, here is what had happened:
The white rabbit pinned for colour
He was taken away and made a fool out of.
So, Tony
You’re a tiger.
“Hello!” She said
God must have colored your lightning bolt stripes in, black
If children could they would be striped and in a blue bowl, too,
Yet we want wheat, miniature doughnuts touched with honey nut, Cheerios
Were they made in England?
A cup of milk will help Americans lose weight.
Hunched over Japanese elders never sipped on the tit.
There!
There she is Aunt Jemima: the mother of cornstarch maple syrup
Number One
She apologizes for not being cereal
Chocolate milk
Liquid fever is chalky in the end
Nesquik remnants
His sneakers are brown
He couldn’t have stepped in shit and dirt,
Since he did not have to pick a bean from the coca plant
Frosted flakes
“Grand to meet you,” a hopeless child said, “I will tell the spoon you have arrived”
I like the things you do
Hey Tony!
You’re sitting in my bowl
A factory in China made this bowl,
But luckily it is blue
See, here is what had happened:
The white rabbit pinned for colour
He was taken away and made a fool out of.
So, Tony
You’re a tiger.
“Hello!” She said
God must have colored your lightning bolt stripes in, black
If children could they would be striped and in a blue bowl, too,
Yet we want wheat, miniature doughnuts touched with honey nut, Cheerios
Were they made in England?
A cup of milk will help Americans lose weight.
Hunched over Japanese elders never sipped on the tit.
There!
There she is Aunt Jemima: the mother of cornstarch maple syrup
Number One
She apologizes for not being cereal
Chocolate milk
Liquid fever is chalky in the end
Nesquik remnants
His sneakers are brown
He couldn’t have stepped in shit and dirt,
Since he did not have to pick a bean from the coca plant
Frosted flakes
“Grand to meet you,” a hopeless child said, “I will tell the spoon you have arrived”
This is Kinda for A No One
Dear Johne,
I know you’ve been watching me
because I’ve been watching you.
I think it’s time to stop now.
Stop looking out the window
for a tomorrow that will never come
why don’t you ease yourself into
your cold bed and settle
between your lonesome sheets, hmm?
Don’t wait for me to kiss your clammy
forehead. Just kiss your hands and sing
yourself a lullaby. Close your
Eyes and whisper my name,
“God’s never been closer to you”
Dear Johne,
You’ve been walking with death in front
of your toes and life behind your heels.
You’re frown has never been as deep.
I hear your foot steps have a blue beat,
and yet everyone is smiling their concerns
and laughing their sympathies at you.
Johnny, boy you’ve become a member of
the How Are You club. Where friends are
walking strangers. I know you’re striving to be
in High-Five society, but why don’t you slow
down. Success comes for only a few. Sit on
this bench here. Grab a bottle that will burn
going down. Close your eyes and just shake off the "How Are You’s."
Give them a reply of a quiet no-real-air-breath.
Dear Johne,
I can see you through those brown
black eyed tears, once so full of life.
Open them wider and wider, so
wide that the neon white lights can
bleach your eyes dead.
I can call you my perfect, now.
I know you’ve been watching me
because I’ve been watching you.
I think it’s time to stop now.
Stop looking out the window
for a tomorrow that will never come
why don’t you ease yourself into
your cold bed and settle
between your lonesome sheets, hmm?
Don’t wait for me to kiss your clammy
forehead. Just kiss your hands and sing
yourself a lullaby. Close your
Eyes and whisper my name,
“God’s never been closer to you”
Dear Johne,
You’ve been walking with death in front
of your toes and life behind your heels.
You’re frown has never been as deep.
I hear your foot steps have a blue beat,
and yet everyone is smiling their concerns
and laughing their sympathies at you.
Johnny, boy you’ve become a member of
the How Are You club. Where friends are
walking strangers. I know you’re striving to be
in High-Five society, but why don’t you slow
down. Success comes for only a few. Sit on
this bench here. Grab a bottle that will burn
going down. Close your eyes and just shake off the "How Are You’s."
Give them a reply of a quiet no-real-air-breath.
Dear Johne,
I can see you through those brown
black eyed tears, once so full of life.
Open them wider and wider, so
wide that the neon white lights can
bleach your eyes dead.
I can call you my perfect, now.
The Theif of Hearts
Dear Jane,
You’ve been through crimson silence.
On a green night I’ve seen your face turn crooked
with jealousy. Your hands slither down the
roads of belly buttons and long curls of
hair only to feel a heat that will not comfort.
You dip in raw, flesh on flesh,
until your body quivers with empty
exhaustion. Your sullen eyes hope
to replace the coat of sweet nothings on his
forehead with something that was never yours to begin with.
Rest by his side now, he’ll leave soon for a
automatic love and children who remember his name as:
“Bye.” He’ll remember you as the open-girl-next-door.
He’ll continue to slip in the back window and you’ll live
as his secret release.
Sincerely,
Dear Jane,
Your hands and breast are cold . Your
nipples are hard from abandonment and your
fingers are laced with last night. Their
scents will forever live on your body.
I hear you’re only laughing them away with hollowness
and unsuccessful triumph. And I see you’re
walking down the street with skin skins,
but these luring masks will never hide your beating shame.
Why don’t you wear underwear, hmm?
Stop opening your legs when your hear,
“Easy access.” Smoke this cigarette fill your
lungs with a slow death because your body can’t
handle the wheel of men, who assured you that their
automatic love is ending and there is a security within
the word, “Us.” Lay your head on your pillow for one
night and remember me, “Dear God for I have sinned.”
Sincerely,
Dear Jane,
I can see you through those red eyed tears.
Even through the crimson silence, I can see your hand searching for a day-night love. Let your
hands fill you because loves comes only for thieves.
Yours sincerely.
You’ve been through crimson silence.
On a green night I’ve seen your face turn crooked
with jealousy. Your hands slither down the
roads of belly buttons and long curls of
hair only to feel a heat that will not comfort.
You dip in raw, flesh on flesh,
until your body quivers with empty
exhaustion. Your sullen eyes hope
to replace the coat of sweet nothings on his
forehead with something that was never yours to begin with.
Rest by his side now, he’ll leave soon for a
automatic love and children who remember his name as:
“Bye.” He’ll remember you as the open-girl-next-door.
He’ll continue to slip in the back window and you’ll live
as his secret release.
Sincerely,
Dear Jane,
Your hands and breast are cold . Your
nipples are hard from abandonment and your
fingers are laced with last night. Their
scents will forever live on your body.
I hear you’re only laughing them away with hollowness
and unsuccessful triumph. And I see you’re
walking down the street with skin skins,
but these luring masks will never hide your beating shame.
Why don’t you wear underwear, hmm?
Stop opening your legs when your hear,
“Easy access.” Smoke this cigarette fill your
lungs with a slow death because your body can’t
handle the wheel of men, who assured you that their
automatic love is ending and there is a security within
the word, “Us.” Lay your head on your pillow for one
night and remember me, “Dear God for I have sinned.”
Sincerely,
Dear Jane,
I can see you through those red eyed tears.
Even through the crimson silence, I can see your hand searching for a day-night love. Let your
hands fill you because loves comes only for thieves.
Yours sincerely.
A Facebook Wall Story: Dedicated to Charlie, Jonia, and Innocent
A FaceBook Wall Story:
I screamed, "Love me, love me! Why won't you love me?" From in a relationship to single; I was depressed, and then
a great wind blew in the window as if there wasn't enough air to breathe in a house; a storm had to brew to get me to see the vastness of my living room. There is loneliness in contentment, so I took a few steps outside.
--
I felt social. Five hundred and sixteen friends.
--
Just above me there were heavy, saturated with moisture and warmth clouds. Even though they're miles away they've manage to say, "Hello. I'm here for you." The walls wear no expressions, but they still hear me. . . and when I'm not watching they steal everything I own. . . I still can't find my shirt and my computer died a curious death. I stopped watching porn a long time ago, but there were still viruses. The inanimates our out to break us, but "I'm not a toy, do not toy with me I breathe!" But I think there are four walls for a reason:
September Box us in.
December Cage us up like chickens.
February Rip our skins.
May Steal our hands and feet for soups.
See More
-
“Hello dear,” her shriveled hands covered my skin, “Have you ever tasted real chicken noodle soup?”
--
Samantha Rodriguez and Jak Mussington Cooper are now friend with. . . “Damn, just limit your profile, so no one can read your wall”
--
I do not want to be a mystery. Honest Box: Do you believe I am a quiet person?
--
I'm a troublemaker, I hate college, I love parties, and single doesn’t mean I’m looking for somebody. 8 hours ago. Comment. Like.
--
When people die their FaceBooks live on. Jonia Mendonca Guterres, Charlie Scanlon, Innocent Mutetwa they do not appear on our news feeds . . . and their names are bold and black not like the hyperlink blue. Facebook somehow knows they’re dead.
--
I do not have enough friends, but I will not add just anyone. Just because your last name is ‘Mussington’ does not mean that I should add you . . .
--
It could have happened when I was on FaceBook, Jonia must have died while I was scrolling up and down her profile, commenting on pictures, commenting on her friends, commenting on her life, but I wasn’t there.
--
Jonia went down to the river by herself, removed her towel from her petite waste, and began to swim. The water was cold, since it had been raining up until then, but her body began to adjust once her head was fully submerged. She treaded water until she was comfortable with the temperature then she decided to do laps in circles. Suddenly, a sharp pain ran up her leg, a muscle spasm. She kicked and thrashed about to get above the water, but she was in too deep. Water rushed into her mouth; she tried to call for help.
--
I logged off.
Series of Mediocre Events: Romance
Series of mediocre events:
I'm happy because I'm done with work! Turned off the computers, music equipment, closed up the music library, swing open the doors and of course it is raining. I'm wearing a short-sleeved, v-cut, lime green shirt, high waters, and pink oxford tennis shoes (I know I'm not matching, but at least I'm not wearing white). Before I go down the stairs I hesitate, testing to see how hard the rain is falling.
It's raining really fucking hard and to make matters worse the wind is blowing, so once I move from the protection of the terrace a thousand and one water droplets are going to smack me in the face and they do.
Now I'm running home, the rain can make you do crazy things look at Spiderman and MaryJane and all those other romantic movies and scenes that involve making out (sex) and rain! I run across the grass and mud, Hulet and Jenks, and I'm on the path that leads to parking lot.
This average white guy (I mean come on I'm in Canton, NY and a black guy in the rain that's asking for too much! It's like asking for fried chicken in Dana! . . . plus as Sam has pointed out: a black guy running in the rain would be considered ghetto (he must be running from the cops) for a white guy it's innovative, romantic (he's running to his lover)) with groceries comes out of no where. He's running really fast. He runs past me and our shoulders bump.
He looks back. I look back.
He calls out, "I'm sorry."
"It's all right," I say loud enough.
I'm happy because I'm done with work! Turned off the computers, music equipment, closed up the music library, swing open the doors and of course it is raining. I'm wearing a short-sleeved, v-cut, lime green shirt, high waters, and pink oxford tennis shoes (I know I'm not matching, but at least I'm not wearing white). Before I go down the stairs I hesitate, testing to see how hard the rain is falling.
It's raining really fucking hard and to make matters worse the wind is blowing, so once I move from the protection of the terrace a thousand and one water droplets are going to smack me in the face and they do.
Now I'm running home, the rain can make you do crazy things look at Spiderman and MaryJane and all those other romantic movies and scenes that involve making out (sex) and rain! I run across the grass and mud, Hulet and Jenks, and I'm on the path that leads to parking lot.
This average white guy (I mean come on I'm in Canton, NY and a black guy in the rain that's asking for too much! It's like asking for fried chicken in Dana! . . . plus as Sam has pointed out: a black guy running in the rain would be considered ghetto (he must be running from the cops) for a white guy it's innovative, romantic (he's running to his lover)) with groceries comes out of no where. He's running really fast. He runs past me and our shoulders bump.
He looks back. I look back.
He calls out, "I'm sorry."
"It's all right," I say loud enough.
Womanhood
Goo-bity-goop
flowing down from
The first time tears
mixed with blood.
On her knees
Her lips quiver
pretending to imitate
the joy
of womanhood.
flowing down from
the middle.
The first time tears
mixed with blood.
On her knees
Her lips quiver
pretending to imitate
the joy
of womanhood.
Gut Feelings
If a man makes you feel. . .
All the when-when-whenevers {giggles}
Whenever you think about his face
Whenever his smile crosses your lips
Whenever his eyes become a stare
Whenever that small freckle under his chin is your sweet spot for him
Whenever the smell of his hair can be traced on your clothes
All the when-when-whenevers {giggle}
Well, I- you know, well don't you?
I-I get those butterfly flutter feelings
The fluttering, bubbling in my womb is
My bodies reaction to his everything.
I'm queasy with ill love, love poisoning
And I need to rush to get him out of my system.
I need a second, space, so I can double over and
Breathe out this fever
The green bile that's rising from my throat
Is his commitment
Slicked with his saliva
I'm quivering with sweat because I-I . . .
I need to shit,
He gives me diarrhea
All the when-when-whenevers have come together and I need a toilet.
. . .Tell him, "You make my stools loose."
All the when-when-whenevers {giggles}
Whenever you think about his face
Whenever his smile crosses your lips
Whenever his eyes become a stare
Whenever that small freckle under his chin is your sweet spot for him
Whenever the smell of his hair can be traced on your clothes
All the when-when-whenevers {giggle}
Well, I- you know, well don't you?
I-I get those butterfly flutter feelings
The fluttering, bubbling in my womb is
My bodies reaction to his everything.
I'm queasy with ill love, love poisoning
And I need to rush to get him out of my system.
I need a second, space, so I can double over and
Breathe out this fever
The green bile that's rising from my throat
Is his commitment
Slicked with his saliva
I'm quivering with sweat because I-I . . .
I need to shit,
He gives me diarrhea
All the when-when-whenevers have come together and I need a toilet.
. . .Tell him, "You make my stools loose."
To Shy-Momo
Shy-Momo I think you are very annoying.
You're not like Semi at all. . .
You're so damn needy, too damn needy, but I understand.
I found you in a green fishnet bag with your brother or sister
And in a cage with white rabbits that were larger than you.
It took you a while to start liking me, but I understand.
You were up at 5 AM, decided to claw at my skin, then you licked me with your rough tongue,
and then you meowed so damn much,
so I gave you milk and moistened cat food.
You're so annoying. . . I also think I am allergic to you, since
I woke up with red puffy crying eyes
I don't like you
But in many ways I love you.
Shy-Momo I hope you stop hiding under the bed and furniture soon.
Don't piss on my clothes !
Don't shed !
I want to hide you in my dresser. . . but
I understand it takes time for kittens like us to adapt to our surroundings and eat a full meal. . .
And stop hiding under beds
And not claw when touched,
So I understand why I need to spoon feed you and give you time and space.
But you're so very annoying
I don't like you very much
But in many ways I love you.
But I'm going to shave off your fur.
Open ended promise
dear dearest. . .
I'm well now, but
not as, as can be
touchable and in touch
I promise to stay in reach.
series of emotional movements (dedicated to 21)
series of emotional movements (dedicated to age 21 also dedicated to the bracketed we, not the plural form of I)
“I wish I didn’t date so many pushy women? Next time. . .”
-
“When you come back from
-
“. . .”
-
Yes, I told him, but I was thinking, 'No.'
-
No, I told him, but I was thinking, 'Yes.'
-
Yes, I told her, but I was thinking, 'No.'
-
No, I told her, but I was thinking, 'Yes.'
-
"Please let's be. . .” I begin.
-
Please let's be, I want.
-
“Fluid?” I asked
-
He didn't understand what I meant by. . .
-
She didn't understand what I meant by. . .
-
I meant an ever-changing . . .
“. . . You can do better than him. . .”
She can hear her friend’s words, but she doesn’t believe her.
“What’s good with her? She’s all right looking, but you can do better than her. . .”
He can hear his friend’s words, but he doesn’t believe him.
-
“What the hell’s wrong with you?”
“What the hell is wrong with you?”
We can hear our friend’s words, but we don’t believe in ourselves, that is what wrong with us.
-
He wants to point a finger at all his friends. She wants to point a finger at all her friends; somehow their friends’ perspectives have lead to this:
Heartache
Temporary Heart Ache
Hurt Feelings
Temporary Hurt Feelings
Feelings of Loss
Temporary Feelings of Loss
Absence of Heat
Temporary Absence of Heat
---
Actually, it often happens in a quiet area, where the pavement stretches to no place important. It is in these places we become decisive and everything about everything is wrong.
-
I called person number seven on the telephone after I wished, in a text message, the connection we were creating never existed and all the promises he was touching thumbs to were sugared.
-
Just before the twelve text messages I called person number eight and asked if he would be willing to meet me in a café somewhere downtown in the center of
-
Just before confronting person number eight, I called then texted person number nine,
‘Hello.’
‘What happened?’
‘Is everything all right?’
‘How’s your grandfather? Arts and crafts session?’
But after the summer I was given the silent treatment.
-
I just wanted an honest answer. They all wanted an answer. . .
-
Do I belong in your life? Or am I a piece wedged in?
-
I'm sure I don't because I am too complex. . .
-
“Well it’s because. . .” He twiddles his thumbs then grabs the cup of coffee that is in front of him.
-
I never asked to be treated or seen as a princess. . .
I never asked for candied nothings. . .
I never asked to be trusted, but . . .
-
I wanted to slip into these fantasies.
-
I often leave without a real explanation. I don't want to hear the truth.
-
“Because. . . I just want you. . .”
-
While I was on the phone I recited to myself that I didn’t want person number seven; however I still asked if he wanted to be friends. He said, “Yes.” I asked him if he was sure.
-
But why?
-
“. . .”
-
“I like you for who you are. . . I mean. . .”
-
“Sweetheart. . .”
-
“. . .”
-
“I. . . I,” he released a sigh, “I’m sorry I ruined the mood.”
-
‘Keep aimlessly smiling, tell everyone what they want to hear, so that you’ll never lose these sources of comfort.’
-
“. . .Stay. . .”
-
". . ."
-
“I could treat you like a princess. . .”
-
". . ."
-
“I. . . I-I’m sorry. . . I’m confused."
-
We all were.
---
My final message to and conversation with person seven and person eight, since both of them seemed to be wishing me wellness was: 'A chicken can't fly because it never stepped off the branch nor can a fish breath air because it wasn't born on land. Wishing is for water and air breathers.'
-
In a round about way I meant don't make promises that are well over your limits; you see I just wished them well, it sort of ended there.
-
Perhaps I was just being stupid.
4 to 5
The radio is on fire, but he doesn't need no water just Sean Paul and the elixirs of 21 it will undoubtedly give her stains in her underwear, but this night will just burn away leaving ashes, a trail of mice droppings, as evidence for this arbitrary moment of sweat and two bodies.
The lights are on and off like video game seisures, they all have something to hide; she and he are ugly during the day. In the darkest corner they coincide in the rhythm of lust, it doesn't need to lead to a bed, just a reminder of who they can be in the light.
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