space frog’s return home

a mini creature, green with squinting eyes beating with emerald’s fury
sped backwards through a wormhole, purplish hues of crystallized time dust
spreading, encircling as it circumnavigated around foreign globes.
cyber snapping turtles blasting behind it. spinning, it shot back
sending shells back to the 74th dimension of its mind’s refracted eye
and then it sped on, into its own space dimension, where a lily pad impatiently awaited for its return. “i will take your weight…the weight of the world,” said lily pad. and so, with pen held tightly and with every letter word formed, a creature who could charm evil out of a demon, landed home. ribbit.

collision

and in a hazy turquoise stare, she sighed heavily…waiting as she lifted dusted blinds. her ancient eyes ablaze…blue-green fires burning to a hidden rhythm only she could hear…and she danced. her feet, carrying microscopic jewels in sand wedged between toes…her white skirt flowing upwards as she continued spinning…spinning as if she was herself the music and as if she controlled time…foolish time dripping into a desert, evaporating before it could leave a trace. moments come and go but this moment stays and then a hand slowing her down…and another bringing her to a complete stop. foreheads touching, beads of sweat mixing into a heated aphrodisiac…and then he said it, “dance with me.” her rhythm swept into his and their music rang through a shattered universe.

sunday morning with ginsberg

lying in bed, embracing a poet’s solitude. sorting out visions from last night’s meditation. sitting by a stream, peaceful. vibrant, deep hues of lush bushes and leaves. so green as if in a painting of an irish landscape. a butterfly, sparkling in sunlight, deep-ocean blue. i follow it to a steep mountain. suns’s glare blocking peek from sight. hand over eyes, shielding, attempting to see. and then him, appearing like a vision in a vision. majestic. he stood, looking down into me, beyond eyes into angelic soul, beyond skin into a river of connectivity between my art and my thoughts. his head blocking out glare. taking my hand, steadily walking up steep mountain as if his presence lessened burden of task. we sat on mountain’s peek which opened into a grassy field and stared out at foreign cities and forests ablaze with cosmic vibrations. my heart to his and his to mine, touching, speaking their own language and us, just smiling, knowing. and so, reaching out to ginsberg, swallowing his words whole, sweet juicy peaches, sunday morning. what thoughts i have of you this morning, naked friend, staring at me from your own mystic visions. father poet, did i inherit gift from you? does madness i embrace echo your own? share some grapes with me. we can discuss supermarkets, blake and sunflowers over the sun-rise dynamo in machinery of our enlightenment.

cosmic soul kiss

been wondering, wondering why. a kiss on your forehead is so unlike me. why would i hold your head in my hands so perfect like an unbroken promise? a kiss, and another and another. my soft lips taking you in, organic, uncontrolled. and, as awareness sometimes does, it hit me today. it’s your third eye. the gateway to your soul. the you that you hide. and so i’ve determined, as one cosmically conscious does, that my soul connected to yours and wanted yours to know.

ode to a dealer

the way he came to me. just would show up. from los angeles. in a gang. always wearing blue. he played pool like a peacock, strutting his feathers as if to draw attention to himself like a foolish man who didn’t know how to walk a high wire in circus act gone terribly wrong. i knew him right away, as one knows an old friend. only he wasn’t a friend at all. he was a dealer. but i knew. which would say what about me? and he kept coming again and again. knocking on my door. presenting himself as a gift. y’aint nothin’ but a motherfucking cockroach bitch. leave me alone. i would scream to walls as though a friendly spirit watcher was there to protect. there was never protecting…never a man on my roof humming sweet lullabies. only me. alone. sniffing, snorting, smoking. and i didn’t care. he did though. i was a consumer and he pried me open, capitalizing on my needs. and i needed. or wanted. sometimes i’m not sure. i cried when he stole my ’03 eclipse. i would yell at him. you look ridiculous driving my car. do you get hit on by many men? sometimes i’m surprised he didn’t kill me. threatened me enough. put a cold blade to my stomach once. and i told him to do it but he couldn’t. pussy. and the last night before leaving forever, he came one last time with a gift – you know the kind – and he asked if i had any regrets about him and i as if he was actually wishing that him and i were a we. i said yes. i wish you had a teacher like me.

motorcycle

in a hipstamatic postcard of us from a different time in a different realm, i want to sit behind you on a motorcycle. an indian perhaps. vintage. i’ll wear all black with a long pink scarf to cascade on wind like a ballet dancer being thrown and spun by her partner. you’ll probably have one of those comically whimsical helmets on with green flames and a grey and white mohawk. i’ll hold your perfect muscular torso tight, breathing in all of your breaths. you’ll be talking, as you like to do, narrating our sunset excursion, deep inquisitive eyes squinting underneath dark biker glasses. you’ll have funny things to say and i’ll laugh as i squeeze you tighter. the highway will blur to our vibration. other cars will come and go as if in a mushroom trip, trailing vibrant dayglow colors shaping themselves into shadows of us. blades of grass will sway in an orgasmic orgy. your heart will beat with mine, forming an ancient drum rhythm familiar to only us, our secret world only we know. primal. eventually, i’ll rest my head into your long spine, nuzzle for a moment, reveling in a silence of a perfect moment of two lovers journeying to a tomorrow of many unknowns.

just a cynic’s view

every cynic
sizing up day’s political wins and woes
is an idealist whose hope
is coated in a sarcastic noose around throat
tightening words
into fireballs of satiric wit
every cynic’s heart beats with fury
with love of country, love of peace, love of a ‘happy ending’
and the idealist in them
though hidden
speaks volumes in silence of a cynic’s smirk

an open non-poetic letter

i’m shutting off the poet to talk in real life. no, really. i am. being that i know you as well as i do, i imagine that you’ve been sitting back watching me from afar and thinking, “oh shit. what the fuck is she doing?” right? you know my writing. you know how i twist between metaphor and simile with the ease of a lizard slithering, camouflaging around branches and twigs. you know how well i hide underneath the juxtaposition of me and a good decision. i need to ask you a question and i need – are you hearing me here – I need you to be honest. can i love? i mean, you know how intensely i can love and how pure my love is but do i have it in me to do it again? what we did was magic. i know that. so do you. fact. and i want you to know that there’s been a person lingering around, puzzling me together and he’s kind of good at it. who knew that i would make sense to someone else in this jagged and loosely strung together universe? he’s not like the others who i used to make you hate me. he’s different. he’s like us and i don’t even know if he knows that he’s like us. his receptors aren’t open enough. not yet. he can’t be with me. he’s “in a situation.” of course he is. laugh for a minute at that. the verse has a funny way of intercepting my life and throwing me to a random receiver from a team i can’t even play for. a cosmic fumble. and so i walked away and then i walked back and then i walked away again. but i think he opened me. and i think i wish i could love him. i’ve dismissed myself as intolerable to most. that most wouldn’t handle me. i’m right about that though. my gypsy-hearted nature makes me somewhat of an impossible shadow of a lover. but what if there’s a person who could tolerate me? maybe even not just tolerate me but maybe even love me. me. real me. no acting, no masks. me. what if there was someone icy enough to cool me down when i burn too hot? and what if there’s someone out there who i wouldn’t just tolerate but who i would love and who i would treat as my king? i’m asking you, poet to poet, salt from a drifting tear tearing into a chapped lip of a poet silently penning a non-poetic open letter to a former lover, do i have it in me to love like that again?

Thursday, February 17, 2005 7:38 AM

From a series of prose letters that I wrote to a fellow poet…

i demand right now to know what was in that syringe because i think you drugged me with your soul. my heart stopped as you pulled out half of mine and started when you shot up half of yours and now look at what’s happened. you think you almost killed me and i think you gave me life. the worst night of my life wasn’t the night you’re thinking of…the night i tore through my skin. the worst night of my life was the night you called me over to you and brought me in and i reached out and, with hand on your stomach, pushed you away and vehemently refused to look in your eyes. the way you sat there so alone and broken and the way i walked away. and i think i hate myself.

circumnavigating to talk with you

he doesn’t know. not like you. he saw a glimpse but he never looked into my eyes. had he of seen – well, you know – you saw into them and you covered your eyes as if a blinding strobe sent you into a shock. remember? i do. i control them most of the time. sometimes i use them for fun. for target practice just to see if i can still shoot to kill. and, between you and me, i would have killed him. so, i did what a poet does, i let him go. masochistic. how good i’ve become at tearing my own heart to pieces. you know me best. it’s a poet’s universe to suffer, to feel love with an intensity of spring lilacs and to release love onto winds to be carried off into an atmosphere unreachable. to lay on back and watch stars and to know that’s you up there. him too, burning bright but not as bright as you. you’re my aurora borealis. but i could have loved him. i know it’s what you want for me. to have the strength to release myself to love but i couldn’t. he had another. and if he had looked into my eyes, my secret dimension, my moon’s pull, i would have taken his heart and i would have done it for no good reason other than i could have. power. control. and i liked him too much to be that cruel.