You fell into my center.
I was spinning,
it was true,
You were that thing
flung into my gears...
You treated me as though
I was the trophy
of your win.
But it was You who fell,
no, jumped off of the mantle.
It's so very very cold in here.
I think I'm bleeding way too much.
I've crawled to where I think the opening is.
It's always blocked and wrong.
They've left moxa on my eyes.
Burning, burning, through the lids.
Curling flaming flesh like silk,
Where the cigarette has touched it.
And now I'm dancing for the money.
My sailor's hat is jaunty but I hate you.
I crucify their want~me succubus,
by standing through their sticky palms.
Wear stiletto heels.
They scare you.
And now you tell me, "Hush you up."
They haunt you reach you.
And now you force me take a pill.
They make you love me.
"Bless me, Father, I have sinned."
You chain me to the bed.
They shock you.
You shock me.
I didn't think I liked blue eyes
But when I looked at yours, I did.
I remember saying
Something about your hair
Being different colours, all about,
And that I loved your melting scar.
You said that mutts are always best.
And I said, "I agree."
You remind me of the summer.
Tequila and tortillas.
Sometimes, makes me happy.
Sometimes, makes me sad.
but it would take years.
of me, sitting silent and bent.
never saying a word.
never eating a bite.
never sleeping, or daydreaming,
or running, or walking, or living,
or any other thing,
than to write my love for you.
you touch me like no other human
ever has, or ever will.
my words fall into the deep nothing,
like my tears and laughter fall into my lap.
it would take bibles,
and i cannot,
if i live to be five hundred,
write my love for you.
if you live to be a thousand,
would not have time to read my love for you.
my january brown.
the root of every inspiration.
evidence of every inspiration.
So, you became You
And I became You,
And in all the inter~star~struck lovers,
Only one pretty blonde girl noticed,
And wrote, "Who is You?" to me...
We spanned Arizona to Illinois,
Covering all the nouns and Capitalizations.
Until I became YOU,
and You became you,
and then We were no longer WE.
I still miss the You who was You to Me.
Skittle Skittle Tap Tap...
Seashells against the baseboard.
Soles against the wooden flats.
Hand on water.
I rest the tips of fingers
On the surface of the water,
Turned Bleu and shining Black
Skittle Skittle Tap Tap.
Round and round in concentric~non~concentricness.
Across the seashells
And, I jump back.
Confused for a moment.
But, this is my house.
This is not the glass and wooden case.
Where I am on display.
Pinned there among the other Butterflies.
In a house,
With a chicken,
And a guitar...
By a Roach.
By a Beetle.
Turned Bleu and shining Black.
Captured one of his own,
But didn't let it live.
Showing it, collected...
In ink and ionic slide.
Seashells and soles.
Turning Shades of Shades of Shades of Shades.
This is my house.No more Skittle Skittle Tap Tap.
I will torch the little house that is my soul.
I will burn it down.
So that when I am tempted to visit those rooms
where are the reminders,
of he who said he loved me...
I will find no trace of solid matter there,
with which to pine.
Only piles of ashes.
And I will draw a cross upon my forehead.
For until all these memories
are carried to the wind,
for my wanting,
there's just enough to keep you addicted,
and hoping that you will get full and satisfied.
but there's too much of it to do that.
it's a hopeless overload,
where you get lost in the masses
of others' immediate intimacy.
we all want the same thing.
but it's another fast food drug.
you could drown.
you could drown in a big bucket of fast food intimacy.
there will always be bruce, the fat kid at school,
who sits across the table from you, and watches,
and eventually asks,
"can i have what's left?"
dogs, sending their secret messages
across a neighborhood.
the clinking of glasses in a quiet restaurant.
the moan of a lover.
and the breathlessness.
the oldest of country songs
from a time i really came from.
any sad song... anytime.
hank topless, singing without even a guitar,
when you thought he'd never make it back.
(i know he's made some mistakes,
but that wail of a voice
makes my heart hurt good.)
the scrichety sound sound of the needle
skipping on an old phonograph.
harleys leaving a breakfast diner
on route 66.
cooks complaining and razzing waitresses
in same said diner.
a banjo in the dark.
a lover practicing guitar,
in the afternoon,
with the rain outside.
rain outside in the afternoon.
an old fan, turning on it's axis,
while the asphalt melts silently outside.
a child singing or talking to a "friend"
when they don't know you're there.
bugsy's tattoo gun.
a cat that purrs too loudly while you lie sad.
a laugh that disrupts
the still of a museum or library.
jericho's voice, when he calls back to say,
"mom, i forgot to say i love you."
pine trees in the wind.
waves on the beach.
the sound of keys in the lock
knowing he'll soon smell the apple pie.
in the dark.
and know he's home.
and i am there.
before I hit
Good and evil
feel the same,
my heart's hiding
from my brain.
before I hit
Look for me inside love's lost and found.
I burn for you on the phone.
I burn for you to call me home.
I burn for you an effigy...
I am going to a place
where the porch light's on in case
that you forgot
to stay awake for me.
not my words.
sometimes, i just wonder if he made it home.
it happened years ago,
and i should be over it.
that's what everyone seems to think.
but last night...
i thought about how he never hesitated
to hop into that old convertible
and drive out past the monument,
with just food that we packed up
from whatever was inside the fridge.
we'd sit out there, in the lightning storm,
and watch the vengeance
of the weather on the city lights,
and know that my little leaky car
would never make it back through the pass, right now.
we'd sit there, and drink our wine,
and read hunter s thompson,
russell banks, or rumi...
every time the sky would light enough
to get a sentence seen.
and if not we'd just watch god's screams.
he said that he did not believe in god.
and people ask me now...
if i believe that he could get into heaven.
i had a vision once.
when everything went down.
i saw matthew
in his big red velvet lounge chair,
sitting there, dressed to the nines,
as he always was.
hair perfect, sideburns trimmed.
his ring... the one he left for me.
looking like a cadillac angel
when you're drunk...
and i think that i see god.
sitting in the matching chair.
i see matthew lift the gun.
and when he puts in his mouth...
his eyes meet with god's.
and in that moment,
as he pulls the trigger...
god plays that trick.
the one where he changes all of time.
to where we can't tell if science or religion
is the one that's right.
is seven days really seven days?
or is it thousands of years?
in the time that it takes a bullet
to travel from the barrel to the brain...
in my vision becomes the time that it takes
to recognize someone, that until that moment,
you did not believe exsisted.
to know that someone could heal your pain.
that someone that you did not know
was there could love you.
really love you.
to know that someone could take you home.
i have to believe that this vision is true.
i sat in the monument last night
in that leaky old convertible.
and watched god's screams.
In all the yard.
In all the rubbish.
I picked him out.
And his amber light glowed
against the countertop,
In the morning sun.
Are we loved because we are beautiful?
Or are we beautiful because we are loved?
A question that was asked of me,
We are beautiful.
We are sometimes found.
We are loved if we are recognized.
We are loved if we are treasured.
If thrown away, or not found...
Still beautiful, just hidden.
~Glow in dirt and glow in rinse water~
Or like that crazy instrument,
that you didn't think you could afford to buy,
at the time...
Or like some women...
You touch them,
and, they're fire.
But, you walk away,
thinking you'll forget, or find another,
just as good.
Man, that thing could race...
That was a fine Gibson.
That thing would be worth thousands, now...
I could have lived with her, forever...
Goddamn, she made a new forever, every day!
They're like Heroin.
You know that you won't stop wanting them.
And, you know that, when you leave.
But, you leave, anyway.
You come back, later, and, they're gone.
Then, he laughed.
Where's that lucky hat, you used to wear?
I always liked that hat...
do you remember, Dear,
that night, i wore the smashed cherry lipstick?
do you remember, the netty veil,
that stepped, jauntily,
off the edge of my pillbox hat?
do you remember, Sir,
the little seam, that went, marching up,
the back of my long, slim leg, sewing me, into silk?
do you remember the scents i wore,
for you, that night, of tonquin,
and, french vanilla beans?
do you remember the punk,
loud, leather and spike wearing music, or the smoke?
do you remember, Love,
lifting me, by my waist,
inside that little military jacket,
up, onto that sleazy bar stool,
and, kneeling, on one knee...
lifting up my ankle, and, placing my foot,
there, upon your thigh?
do you remember, Sex,
looking up, into my eyes,
and, mouthing words?
do you remember what you mouthed?
do you remember, Abaddon,
my eyebrow, singly, lifting,
or your focus, stripping me, almost naked?
do you remember,
the lead singer of the band, gruffling by,
pulling in his chin, and shaking his head,
as if You didn't fit, there?
do you remember, Prince of Darkness,
re~working, the buckle of my shoe?
In all my mis~steps,
and mess~ups, and, minuses...
Why does, every now, and then,
one man, step forward, from the rest,
and, ask me to remember...
a laugh, a look, a spoon.
A vintage chinese room,
in a fightclub house.
A carrying of a pair of pinchy shoes,
through a garden,
where the koi are bigger than
an Arizona girl's tattoos.
That old tin tub,
than the Bluebird of Happiness.
And, the rain blew harder,
than an Arizona girl's anger.
was bigger than the doctor's house,
Maybe, more like the moon.
I'm always in love.
But, any major dude will tell you...
We're just too far apart.
Hurricanes and beaches.
Tomatoes and Chicos.
Lawyers and sushi.
Tibet and secret soup.
Tomorrow, I will listen to Nick Cave,
Nurse With Wound,
Anything, but Wilco.You would laugh, at this.
I sat, tonight, listening to Wilco, and, to Nick Cave,
in the neighborhood bar, called,
drank, one too many glasses,
of what some, would call,
Saw a curly headed boy, playing darts...
and, thought, of one Cuban man,
whom, I have never met,
yet, who, I love the words,
that pour, pouting, shouting, reeling, reveling,
out of fingertips...
in French Nursery Bleu.
I danced with Tiffany...
the girl clown...
such a milk filled thing...
Danced, outside, into the pouring rain...
Hearing, "The Sisters Of Mercy"...
still on the sidewalk...
I will remember the handlebarred mustache
of the ever lonely man.
Committed to sin.
Committed to what he thought was right.
the floods, of monsoons,
which I love, and live for...
I couldn't get into the small apartment,
My little slippers, are all mashed.
I will lay them, on the floor, beside the kitchen sink,
to re~shape themselves...
Beside, the silk, of covering, of tiny parrots.