lovelust

i know no one ever knows and so

i go full hearted into your shallow chamber

of lies fluttering eyelashes and voiceless

decrees

admist your hips thighs and flowers

unworthiness is a broad term.

it flows of uncertainty and remorse

i wonder how much longer this can all go on?

the mornings of longing

the push and pull of quivering skin to help satiate the need of you?

you reside in other fantasies

the one in the car

or the train

the one where you take me down and willingly take me shoot upside

the flare rockets between your fingers and wetness..i shiver in my stockings

i moan into darkness

i wonder how much longer this can all go on?



Suzy Gonzales

i look into the pictures of your sidways glancing eyes
i see the girl that everyone loved
everyone saw in life boiling over into bubbling smiles
the girl that everyone knew
on a red scooter
and purple wig
trailing daisies behind you
chasing fireflies on the side of the road

with a preference to plaid skirts and
green tennis shoes
bright open smiles
and poses of exuberance abound
it hurts my cheeks to make my mouth bend that
wide
your smiles
your body young and atheletic
your skin radiant and pure

it is with this i recognize
your pain..
the charade
the constant winning over of allies
and the self doubt..

it is with this i see my path entertwined with yours..
only you
have far outdone me, girl.

i cannot make the plans
that took you from this life..
and somehow..that makes you more brave
than i will ever be..

i see the pain and disbelief in your parents
faces..the old worn
latino lines
that my mother and father always
had for me..

'..she was such a happy girl..'
i think they would say..

they never really do know us, do they?
no one ever really knows us...
and somewhere the brain plays tricks on us..
makes us seem larger than life
makes it ok..
to think..
to drink the poisens
that will bring us to the sleep we crave

to shut the voices out
of self doubt
and pain..

and so you will haunt me..
Suzy Gonzales..
I will never truly know if you should be my
Hero..
or my demise.



don't read this


stirring the cup
makes no pleasure
to see you there
and my wall is falling
with a bitter sip

telling you is important
keeping you there is more
and here comes the best part

i am/am not over you yet

i want to find the sofa you are looking for
to melt against you
in un popular ways
forgetting my gender
and stereotypes
pouring like sugar
over the mystic
i made you into

i drink it down fast
wonder where the time goes if
it is always now

my belle and sebastian cd is on a loop
im hoping it will inspire me
to write about you
like a storybook damsel
instead
it makes it rain.

burial rights

don't make a noise
don't make a breath
the funeral
in our bed
is finally underway.

arms wraped around ourselves
we knew it was coming
but i didnt know
the moment
would be
so..
tragic?

don't move an inch

the silent wall between us can't
budge
or fall
around the false hopes we
carried once

and all at once

it's lowered down
the desire
and the willingness
will mingle
with the bones of our
false intentions
and there we will
rot

don't speak
don't breath
and shall these
bedspings
nary squeak..

the funeral in our bed
is finally
underway.


still

i am still here
being ignored
like the wallpaper
sighing out the window into
hopeless
emotionless
light of day

i am still here
staring at the skyline
waiting for signs
and multitudes of forgiveness
for yet undone deeds

and love
that too..
love.


cycles

it continues
the sky clears and gives
new meanings
without its dark deep cloud cover

i step out onto the wooden planks
and feel the warmth of the past
within them

out beyond the trees and fence
they are out there

and it continues
until it is right
until it does not.



tenderly


I tenderly see you thru watered down eyes.
Watered with alcohol and blurred with smoke..
and with the jazz behind you
you move in scarecrow patterns
in front of fishtanks with worried
inhabitants that
flee even with the click of a lightswitch.

it is tenderly
i wonder what it like
to sleep alone
night after night
among your carefully placed things
rows of white toilet paper
dustless corners
and shelves of books..

your airconditioner humming alone
and the birds making nests in your trees outside
my flophouse sleep bed I hastily
fall in..

i see the motivation in your pictures,
aligators
and a lonely sock at the side of the bed.

but as much as my heart desires
i somehow only catch glimpses of you
tenderly.

13 voice messages

i forgot about for a few weeks,
and standing in the morning window light sun
i dial the number
and listen to them
one by one

3 hang ups
3 from the blogger girl..
bubbles and smiles
1 from a missed appointment
1 from a missed party across town
1 from an old friend that calls me 'puddin' pop'

1 of p's little friends, breathy and too close to the reciever
1 automated loan computer
and
1 that sounded like it came from outerspace with lots of
white noise and distored voices

all of these I delete from the phone.

and then there is
1 from her

talking low
from a shielded reciever
at work..she says..
and it takes her
more than a few minutes to explain
coffee
and catching up
i can hear smiles..
as i listen i watch
the lazy cat from the apartment across the street
stretch and yawn
like the crazy
ball in my stomach
when i hear her voice

still

i push the number 9
and the robot voice says
my message will be saved
for 14 days.

and it is with great trepidation
i'll probably listen to it
for the next 14 days

and keep unraveling
the stray cat
in my heart
that she somehow happened
to leave behind.

busted headlight


shit, i'm glad you are painting.
i was thinking about that the other day, looking up
at the collage you did for the breakroom..
the girl with the bass.. (the guitar, not the fish)
you drew that
and i was wondering if you were still painting..
thats really good.

i'm writing and
not doing much of anything elese
but thats good enough.
i got a new voice recorder for my ipod and i'm going to make a cd
of my poetry
thats good.
you should draw me a cover..really that would
be cool.
do it
do it

so i guess i'm doing alot.
but right at this moment..
im sitting here remembering the leaves and the trees
that's what it sounds like here in the patio door
open and stuff.
i get lonely here.
i watch the golf players and listen to
tom tom club and the cure
and feel pitifully old.
im all out of pot.
and so my day off is boring..
i usually get high and write poems
and listen to jazz and think off all these cool things
i want to say to you
and everyone elese..
then the pot wears off
and im just pitifully old again.

eh..anyway

im reading lots!
sylvia plath, bukowski, the history of television,
on the road..(again)
and a big anthology of poetry.. with lots of
hip hop and shit.
i like it..but it all mixes up like a big poetry gumbo..
with my juices inside poluting it all up.
i remember bits a pieces
and put them in the wrong order
and its quite surreal..
sylvia plath has mary tyler moore hair
and i want to fuck her even more..
jack kerouac is busting a sick rhyme..
and lenny and squiggy are in the backseat
smoking a blunt with alan ginsberg.

hah. thats real cute.

so anyway..
please write too..
and see you next sunday..where?
you choose
not too far away
i got a busted headlight..

browse function

im in love
with the blog girl
the one with the scrunched up face
and short black hair
her b&w portraits speak to me
like only a pretentious
snob like me
can truly understand
and be turned on by..

sure,
the girl with the bettie page bangs is
sexy
but this one..
has style..

like a modern day
holly golightly
i can almost
see her tumbled over
champagne glass of milk
on the shag carpet..
and Cat curled up
in the bathtub sofa

how did she know
that i love horizontal stripes
and radiohead

its a match
made in
cyberspace dementia..

V

hands that plow
thru dark thick ranges
of her jet black hair
thinking deep
about
irridecent bumblebee nightmares
shopping carts
and tall silver scaffolding

i am always taken by her fingers
thin delicate knots and knuckles
rice paper skin
cold and strong

fingers raking thru mad mop of hair
eyes a thousand and one miles away

oh,
to sleep in her winn dixie dream..
to take her far away into something
i have not imagined yet..

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.