Saturday, January 8, 2011

strange the dream i had 
of a japanese monkey
from a raven birthed

Thursday, January 6, 2011

You Know Who You Are

Catch a thousand kisses.
I've sent them on the wind.
When I say that what I really want
is waterproof thigh~highs
in the desert...

Forbid the still.
Forbid the sun.
Until my pouting lips
are close enough
to prove to You,

my love,
the weather.

They Said They Said

"Where did she go?"

They said, they said.

Into her heart, and then her head.

"I live here all alone, you see...
where no~one tells me good from bad."

"And when I cry...
Or if I'm sad,
No~one says, 'I said, I said.' "

Of Love And Other Demons

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.

My Dreams.
My Dreams...
They scare you.
And now you tell me, "Hush you up."

My Heart.

My Dreams.
My Dreams...
They haunt you reach you.
And now you force me take a pill.

My Mind.

My Dreams.
My Dreams...
They make you love me.

"Bless me, Father, I have sinned."

You chain me to the bed.

My Sex.

My Dreams.
My Dreams...
They shock you.

My Soul.

You shock me.

Learn How To Say You Love Me, Ink~Spilled~Upon~My ~Breast

Learn how to say you love me.
Treat me gently.
Send for me.
Before our summer ends.
Place me in a box of velvet.
Old or new, I do not care.
Strong and softly, carry me to you.
I'll wear white satin.
Or black lace beneath a trench coat...
I'll carry paint and glass for you.
I'll smell of tonquin and vanilla.
I long for quiet and for trust...

Learn how to say you love me.

In the end, blue happiness is only metal.

In the end, words written are just fodder.

In the end, sex is something
that you order on the internet.

And my memory is just something
that you wipe away.

Just A Trinket Will Do

Why is it,
that we run
and knowledge

like skinny, knobby kneed children,
ill dressed in bright rags.

dancing through the dust and filth,
over and again,

after tanks?

screaming and hooting,
at recruits,
not much older than ourselves,

"Trinket for me, G.I.?"
"Throw me a trinket, G.I. Man..."

"Throw me a triinket!"

Silk Lives & Hearts Made Out Of Dandelion Wine

I don't know how to drive this car.
I don't know what this music is.

I don't know why that cop
has made a u~turn in th
e quiet road.
I don't know where I'll get the money.

I don't know where you are, tonight.
Or if you'll ever see me, more.

But, I smile,

Knowing that you are.
Somewhere, in this world, tonight.

~Silk Lives & Hearts Made Out Of Dandelion Wine~

Tuesday, January 4, 2011

Where Is South From Here, Anyway?

I woke before the light, again.
Lying in the tallest and piled highest of beds.

The North of beds, it is.

The monsoons had started, and the dark.
The desert freezing, storming, raging.
Snow where you don't expect it...

But not white and bright,
Like Christmas snow.

Dark and slushy,
A Trojan Horse inside the trojan rain.
Birds freeze and fall,
as if they forgot

That they needed to fly south.

Where is South from here, anyway?


Bonsai trees
Are allowed to do as they please

In MY house


Sometimes Makes Me Happy Sometimes Makes Me Sad

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.

If I Could Write My Love For You, I Would (Zacharias)

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.

and you,
if you live to be a thousand,
would not have time to read my love for you.

my january brown.
my pain.
my joy.

the root of every inspiration.
evidence of every inspiration.

you became You, and I became You, until I became YOU and You became you...

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.

I still miss the You that I thought let me be Me...
Or You...
Or who I thought was You...

I Asked You Not To

Skittle Skittle Tap Tap...

Seashells against the baseboard.
Soles against the wooden flats.
Hand on

Always, first,
I rest the tips of fingers
On the surface of the


A Beetle...
Bleu and shining Black

Skittle Skittle Tap Tap.
Round and round in concentric~non~concentricness.

the seashells
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
By a
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.

Shades of Shades of Shades of Shades.

This is my house.

No more Skittle Skittle Tap Tap.

Here I am.

One guarantee.

I'll more than likely
fuck it up.



Second guarantee.

I'll more than likely
try to get back up.

Third guarantee.

Only three people
will understand this.


u said, my name, means hope~

I miss the color of your.
I miss the curve of sleeping.
I miss the traveling, way too fast.
I miss the waiting, way too long.
I miss that melting scar.

A Walk Through Crazy (Jen Lost Her Mind)

you know,
some of you,

my crazy.


not so much

"they will
give me
mind candy"

but crazy...

"you think too much."
"you say too much."

"you show too much."
"you believe everything."
"you let things affect you."

"you feel too much."

i have tasted a thousand religions.

i salted the dead sea.

i have lived a thousand lives.

a thousand books.

ten thousand songs.

if i do not feel & think & learn & live,

then i will have to live ten thousand more.

in this instant society,

where you can voyeuristically view my body,

this tent,

my little house soul,

when i leave the shades undrawn...

to feel too much

is what some of us are here to do.

when we've drunk our fill,

when meds won't work,

& the doctor cannot figure out how to help...

we cripple on,

stumbling about in the dark,

blindly looking for the door...


you need to know
that there is someone else
out there,
who thinks too much,

feels too much,

says too much,

& shows it.

in that,

your heart can look up through the tears,

& take hold of the hand of a strange friend,

& let them walk you
through the crazy.

to live another song tomorrow.

it's what we write about.

our crazy.

I wear an antique slip and wait for Easter

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,
never comes.

"Memories are just dead men making trouble."
~Gabriel Garcia Marquez~
~The General in his Labyrinth~

the step across man

you laid soft compliments before my feet,
the day my shoes were taken.

i was afraid to step, then.

you strew out whispered words of comfort,

so my tender feet would not be torn
upon the sharpness of aloneness
or insecurities.

what had been done,
you wrapped in gauze,
and set to heal.
saying, simply,
bleeding works a cure, and cleanses.

when on the phone,

you spoke me bibles,
so that i would believe in me, again.

if i fell in sleep,
the pillows of your whispers

kept my neck from bending.

my rest was full.

my somnolent dreams complete,

with colour and with solace.

you became the bridge,

where i could cross
from the island,
where i let myself fall captive,
to the world, where once again,

i could stride long
and laugh and live

and love...

never to return
to that unholy place,
that i had tried to ford alone,

where my spirit

had been so cruelly lacerated
with malign.

for the step across man

who said,
that the only harm
that you would place
around my throat
are rubies...
who said,
that you would place rubies there,
before you placed a pearl...
you send those words through air
on waves
that i do not approve.
they are treasure to my heart.
more than diamonds.
more than gold.
more than rubies.
more than pearls.
a strange and lonely foreign movie.
that's something that someone told me once.
that i was.
a movie that he didn't understand.
that was made by some unknown obscure director,
probably on 8 millimeter. and then shown at cannes.
only those wearing the black turtleneck
would pretend to understand.

and then they would get into their older model mercedes
and drive home and make gentle and caring love
that is their sex.
and drift into crisp and clean white sleep.

and the movie. it remains foreign and obscure.

their dog, it doesn't shed.
their shoes, they don't collect the mud.

this is the first time that i will write for all of you
the things that lurk and live somewhere in the halls of my soul.

you always get the blockbuster.

this is not the blockbuster. this is my darkness.

this is how once, i made the devil fall in love.

he drank whiskey and wine together. and he sat in a chair.
and he watched... as i, in a red antique slip, painted a wall olive.
and then the colour of an eggplant. and then the colour of butter.

but the devil, he is fickle, and love does not count as lust.

i am tired of the whiskey tango.
i am weary of the cognac surface.

i long for balance. and understanding. and .... well,
a quiet gentleness that will never come
from the consumer of hollywood.

so, will you stay until the end?
even if you don't understand...

the sad and lonely foreign movie...

por el gato negro

i did not mean to do.

a test failed?

a test not known about.

not a test at all, perhaps.

just a dream,

that in waking time,

seems like a test forgotten.

or unattended.

how more graceful
a failing

could there be?

fast food intimacy

immediate intimacy.
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?"

the answer

the sound of a lonely train whistle
in the distance.

mourning doves at sunrise.

dogs, sending their secret messages
across a neighborhood.

the clinking of glasses in a quiet restaurant.

sleeper's breath.

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.

violins anytime.


a lover practicing guitar,
in the afternoon,
with the rain outside.

rain outside in the afternoon.

rain outside.

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.

For Johnny Mercury

rain at dusk.
rain at dawn.
coffee at dawn.
coffee at dusk.
bacon anytime.
clean sheets.
lamp oil.
chocolate pipe tobacco.
a good cigar.
motorcycle shops.
new leather.
antique shops in the middle of nowhere.
mowed grass.
hot bread.
cedar burning.
stardom is the heroic mask
that culture puts on the face
of emotional greed.

today is a lyle lovett day...
while the sky
weeps her rain,

step inside this house.

the second disc.

nothing dries
in the desert
on a day like this.

and for once,

waterproof thigh highs could be useful.

my head is hurting again.

The Witness Cat

that stripy cat became a pinwheel in the alley.
a lollipop.
and then the rising sun.

i grab my fishnets and my hi~heeled stompers
from the floor.

the bullet's left the gun.

why do i always do this?
it's what i've always done.

why do my legs grow longer,
when it's love that i outrun?

Will You Wait Up For Me?

Will you wait up for me?

Catch me
before I hit
the ground.

Good and evil
feel the same,

my heart's hiding
from my brain.

Catch me
before I hit
the ground.

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.
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.
embroidered shirt.
antique boots.
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.

Monday, January 3, 2011

a dream of bacon tea

just lie here, for now, 
and you can kiss my eyelids. 
Pull my hair... 
Press my belly. 
Stroke the edges of my breastesses. 
Paint my toenails. 
And, cook me bacon tea.

Saturday, January 1, 2011

Love In Amber Light And Plastic

I found this in my yard, the other day.
A tiny treasure.
Not a prism or a gem,
But an inexpensive piece of plastic
With a cartoon hero/villian
whom I don't even know.

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,
quite recently.

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~

What Howe Gelb Said When My Heart Got Broke

There are some women, who are like fine cars, he said.

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...

The King Of Tyrus

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?

do you remember,
now, or then, Dear, the drizzles of sugar,
that surely, would have covered your hands,
had you left them there,
any longer...

do you remember our skin, melting?

Thirty Day Internet Bride

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,
was bigger
than the Bluebird of Happiness.

And, the rain blew harder,
than an Arizona girl's anger.

was bigger than the doctor's house,
in Arizona.

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,
Don Williams,
Or Cracker...
Something else.

Anything, but Wilco.

You would laugh, at this.

But, July, in that tiny canoe, on a lake,
banked by warring old men,
independent, with rockets...
was bigger than,
the internet reality show...
the thirty day internet bride.
Bigger, I wish, sometimes,
than an Arizona girl's fireworks.

Let Them Eat Cake

I sat, tonight, listening to Wilco, and, to Nick Cave,
in the neighborhood bar, called,
"The District"...
drank, one too many glasses,
of what some, would call,

"bad" wine...

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.
Committed Sin.

the floods, of monsoons,
which I love, and live for...
the rain.

I couldn't get into the small apartment,
without wading.

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.

Much, like we do, to our souls, each time,
we are caught,
inside the downpour.

Spending commas, like they're free...

White Linen, Fedoras, Ceiling Fans and Trains

Maybe, it's the rain, that does it.

Maybe, it's the Quinine.

Either way...

Mixed with Gin,

Mosquitoes are definitely,
rather heavily, involved.

Soldier's Bride

I'm not a soldier's bride.

No more waiting.
on life, to come on home.

Even, if it does, now.

Surely, I would wake,
and, find, an angry psychotic,
wild eyed, and foamy mouthed,

Holding a gun, to my head.

Not remembering, who I am.

If Our Breath Ever Mixes

If our breath
ever mixes
after all of this time
of panting
and holding
our mouths
just hairs apart...
with such possible buzzing
and, you, knowing
full well
why i like hip bones
so much.
we'll burn this old world, down.

I Heard You Were A Rockstar With Tulips

I heard that you said,
that I was a loose cannon.

I heard that you said,
that I was a dangerous girl.

I heard that you said,
that you liked dust.

A lot, of dust.

I heard that I said,
that I needed a rockstar.

I heard,
that you were a rockstar, with tulips.

I heard,
that you wouldn't write about what happened,
until years had passed.

I heard,
that I hope that you never did.

I heard,
that I write about what happened, now.

I heard,
that I like ten dollar pianos.
And, dirt.
A lot of dirt.

I heard,
that I need a rockstar.


I'm thinking more, these days, of starving.
I'm thinking more, these days, of pages.
I'm thinking more these days of wine.
I'm thinking more, of kentucky, more than not.
I'm thinking more, these days of lap steel, and, turtles,
caught in traps,
that when you're young,
ruin your stomach,
as much as shooting dogs.
I'm thinking more, of men, who're mad,
until, the hip, consider genious...

who, when you're young,

make you think, you've ruined your heart,
like it's already been ruined.

A Beautiful Man, Holding a Broken Hand Mirror

He was my
best friend.
He wasn't my friend, at all.

He always, gave me the same lamp,
on Valentine's Day.
I always,
gave it back,
on his birthday.
He ate all the brownies, even~though,
I accidentally
used garlic powder.
I think, that we both decided,
he should cook.
He broke my favorite vase.
I never let him know, I cared.

He left feathers
in my mailbox,
and tiny paintings,
tacked to the walls, behind furniture,
so you'd never find them, if you didn't move.
He walked in, once,
with a ladder, paint, and brush.
Painted a shadow, of a rabbit,
on the wall, and, left,
without, ever saying a word.

When I asked him, if he was a vampire.
He thought, that I was joking.

When he asked me, to marry him.
I thought, that he was joking.

When, he asked me, to borrow, my atlas,
he hid, with his eyes,
the trip he was planning.
He dared me to come to his funeral,
wearing a red dress.

I did.

He was, one of the most beautiful men,
I've ever known,

but, he was holding,
a broken hand~mirror.

Goodbye, Pike.
No~one can live, as a mirror.

One Cloud Feels Lonely

ruby brown
was found, today.
almost drowned.

now, he is happy, to drink bottled, kitten milk.

human beings say,

"it never rains, but, it pours."

this is not very apt.
for, frequently, it does rain,
without pouring.
the rabbits' proverb, is better expressed.

they say,

"one cloud feels lonely."

~richard adams watership down~

A Small Male Fallow Deer

how is it,
that someone,
who we hardly know,
can rip our heart,
in two?
and, how, then,
should a lover, long,
be able to,
or want...
i stood beside the man,
i call, my ultra lith,
past the time of sleeping,
his, where he travels ragged miles,
and, i, just seem to travel...
in rolling hills of emerald,
stone fences,
too far away to care about,
or hinder,
where we'd go,
in technicolor.
and, there are no weeping camels.
a male, and fallow deer,
raised it's tender head,
with velvet antlers,
and looked at us, in silence.
we're never silent,
unless, there's something,
dreadful wrong.
and, we're never really peaceful.
only in my magnavox of irish dreams.

he wondered, laughing,
looking devilish,
wouldn't it be funny,
if it was just a simple farm boy,
who figured it all out,
in the end?

and, later, pointed,
with one finger,
and asked,
is that the deer,
that we saw,
inside your dream?
how is it,
i ask,
looking deviled,

how is it,
that as a stranger,
and lover,
both, at once,
can you rip my heart,
and, yet,
read my dreams?


i am listening, to the man, in the paper hat...

Fate of Cards

she fluttered, down from plastic rickshaw,
sat on kitchen sash.
wind pushed her into water.
faded queen of hearts.

invoked for cursing, sick of love.
joining suds and old coffee grounds,
in drain.
beside the suicide king,
who had fallen, there, days before.
picked up from gutters,
south of main and cushing.

king of hedons. babylon.
both, now soggy, from different decks, completely.
covered in spaghetti.

Bikes of Tortured Girls and Paint

"I like to wake her up, when she's had too much to drink,
or, when she's just too tired to know what's going on."

"I like to ask her, things, like..."
"What color do you want your bike, painted?"
"Can I paint it, stripey... like a bee?"

"Yesss..." She'll answer, sleepily.
"Like a soft, fuzzy, bee?"

"Yesss..." She'll answer... "Like a soffft, fuzzzy beee..."

"I think, that may be categorized, as torture." I say.
That's when every man, in the room, looks my way,
and say, almost, in angry unison, something...
about how I don't understand men, at all.
But, I do understand men.

And, I understand why all the loved and tortured girls'
bikes, are striped, and painted fuzzy...

At Least I'm Dreaming, Again

"At least, I'm dreaming, again."

She said.

"I called in sick, and then came by to visit you."
"You were sexing with my friend, Miss Nadja."
"I tried to explain, to the both of you,
that I wasn't mad, just bored."
"Then, I rode that big green bike, right up a two story wall."
"It only stopped working, when everyone told me that I couldn't do that."
"And, I fell."
"All the way down, I just kept thinking..."
"I really, so love this old Schwinn..."
"But, it's going to hurt, like the Dickens, if I don't disengage myself,
from it, pronto."
"You know that sick in the stomach feeling,
that you get, when you fall..."
"Well, it woke me up. I was mad at you, all day."
Not really mad. Just irritated."

"So, Ultralith, what do you think that it means?"

"I think that you know what it means."
"And, I think that if I tell you what I think it means,
it won't be any different, than what you thought it meant, before."
But, I do think, that you'll be irritated, at what I think it means."

"It's been since December."
"And, it's almost my birthday."
"At least, I'm dreaming, again."

Not Worth The Salt

My son came here, one day.
He knew I was sad,
about not being able to figure out a particular friendship,
and the loss, of lied to about, relationship.

As he left, he turned, and said,

"Mom. I tell you what I do.
I know that you don't always like it.
But, I tell you.
I tell you the truth, because, I respect you.
AND, I trust you.
I trust, that you will love me, always,
even if you don't like what I do."

"Never be sad, at the loss, of someone,
who won't tell you,
the truth."



As he walked away, he finished, with,

"Someone who lies,
is not worth your purest tears, of friendship."

My son is twenty~two years old.
What he said, is wise, beyond a million.

People lie, out of fear.

I am weary, of chickens.

Much love.