Everything comes out in colors

the white
the yellow
the greens

leave the mark open to the empty
sky
my witness
the chill
escapes the window
in a rush

my wrists ache for resolve
my brain heavy
with sadness
dull from the clenching and
unclenching of my hands
thin fingers
wrapped around cigarette
blocks of inner conversations revolving around

you
me
sylvia

and the thousand winging birds outside
my doorstep
beleaguered in their necessary song.
the air
is pregnant with moisture

like my eyes
like my vagina
like my heart

ever beating crimson the three
holy trinity
once baited by you
and now nevermore
as i saunter
to my love's permanent slumber.

so i'm back

to the stone front
and the crazy plastic owl that turns his
head slowly in the passing breeze.

there are 2 dos exis
boxes in front of your house out with the
trash,
the tree in the yard is nice and full
the dog with white whiskers
sleeps on the floor.

you are the same..and i am too.
so i'm back
to staring at the stone Buddha
and the the glass pebbles in the dish next to the serenity
sand zen garden with tiny rakes i want to touch

you watch my hands always..
and they always move and fiddle
with the pillows..my collar of my shirt..
the buttons on my purse.

i want to straiten the books on the shelve
my eye always lingers on the
food and hunger book
i'm always hungry

(i think about going to the dollar store next
and buying some candy to eat..)

i'm talking
about pain
about being lonely all the time
about the girl
and wanting to sit in a car
with her and wanting to ask
her for the impossible
all over again

you think i need to be
with people that make me
feel better about myself.
it's hard.. i tell you.

i want to sit in the car
with her and ask
her
'how do you feel about suicide?'
really
i do.

and somehow this scares and comforts me
at the same time.

jokes. on. me.

its surreal
the moment you see your body
under you
working of its on discretion
without your egocentric mind
all wraped up in it

its glourious and dissapointing

that i'm less than perfect
that the face i have is a memory of what
i always thought i looked like
in the mirror

another person
vaguely familiar

older
tired
makes faces, sticks out tounge,
to make the inner
me
the child
laugh
to hide the dissapointment
that my made up surreality
doesnt always fool me
or you.



Aha!

so anyway
there was art
and pretension
modest mouse convention members
joy division
pillars of water and ice
dissolved in the
red neon and
cut blue glass that no on was suppossed to touch
DOnt! TOuch! they say sternly
my mexican rice and beans
sit like a rock in my gut
shoulda had another drink
this poetry is slow
boring and the audience say
'AH hah..!' knowingly..
but they don't know
cause the poet doesnt know
or care if you 'AH ha! Ah HA!'
bollocks
driving in the car on the way home
seeing the india ink pool of sky with
dirty cotton balls seeping into it
having that feeling again
that feeling
wanting to peel away from the car thru the passengers window
and float up into that blue
float effortless away
into something elese
into bed
he snores
i can't sleep with the racket of
all tomorrows dissapointment
rolling around in my brain
constant.