Student of the death of the Rooster 

She waited one hundred and thirty days, 
hoping for the dead.
She sat quietly, and moved nothing but her eyes.
And when they came collecting money from the dead,
She paid them with her own.
The energy of life is more powerful than greed, she said.
And when they came collecting the paintings of the dead,
She dispersed them among his loved and lovers.
Knowing that friendship is more powerful 
than "cultured" people led.
And when they came collecting the writings of the dead,
She burned them all, 
Protecting his insanities 
from the curious and the wicked.
Then they came collecting the belongings of the dead.
This is when she opened wide the door.
"The living will need the things that the dead do not," 
she said.

She buried, small, a box, hidden in the yard.
Rings and mummied kittens were the treasures that she hid.
And when her heart grew weary, 
too heavy to work, anymore,
She went inside her house, 
and then she shaved her head.
Silence was her companion, then, 
her servant, and her bed.
You say that she is a graceless warrior.
You say that you would learn her.
You always keep your promises...
This is what you said.
But the master doesn't always choose the student.
She has chosen you instead.
You dared her for birds on wings of bleu, 
and hearts afire, red.
She is learning, now, her master.
As she learns herself.
You step this way, she counters that.
She has begun to learn your blocks.
You are the book of mysteries 
that needs be learned and read.
You caught her by surprise, just once.
It will not happen again.
Why would she give up on the living?
She waited one hundred and thirty days, hoping for the dead.

"Who will check your heart when I'm gone?"
"I'll just fuckin' shut that thing off..."
Your hair.
expensive black ink. 
that when spilled on the table 
I would never clean up.
My hand.
spread out like a fan
just resting on the liquid surface
that sensation.
that touch.
My heart.
Knowing
that the satin pool of coal 
there
is more 
than any artist could put to paper
with pen or brush.
My mind.
Knowing 
that ink,
spilled
is no longer contained
to do with what I want.

you better kiss me, 
cause your gonna miss me when i'm gone.

Chopsticks and Fireflies

I want to disappear today.
This is the day that I want to vanish.

Black Irish in a funeral hat.
Tell me if you are not already dead.

Come with me.
Blue jeans and boots
And mandarin collars.

An old airstream in the desert.
Fans and cars that set themselves on fire.
~Cake~

You Ruined Me

08/26/2006
You spilled your ink onto my breast
and it leaked through into my heart.

How do I get that stain out?
And do I care if words and thoughts
have forever soiled my spirit?
My hand rests upon this surface, still
Not tending to the blackness...
Better than any brush or pen...
Your ink upon my breast.

~Cake~
Know the Rain Here By Geoff Baker

Spanish Doctor

08/26/2006 22:15:00
the last time i ever saw you
I watched you pack your bag,
and you asked me what looked good, on you, to wear, there.

I watched as you ate my dinner.

Never noticed that I didn't dine, as well.

You asked where the old boxes of photos were.

You went on and on, excitedly...

A self~involved child,
showing me things you feel as though you'd skipped.

I said to you 
that I had gotten you something for luck.

I brought out the antique Spanish stamp.

You took it without reply.

Then you sheepishly grinned,
and responded.
I got you something for luck, too.
You reached into your wallet,
where you placed my magick gift.

And you tried to hand me twenty dollars.

I did not reach for it.

"For luck." You said.

"Via con Dios, mi amigo." I said low.

"OH, yeah... you too."

I realized at that moment 
that my heart 
could comply with exactly what you wanted.

And never miss you, again.

~Pani Dulce~

Work Of The Helper Monkey

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	This was the morning work of the helper monkey. The little helper monkey inside the house.

The Rubicon

When you told my secrets to another woman, That is when you crossed the Rubicon. History repeats itself. History deletes itself. You are history.