IN GOING JUT SO FAR

Going just so far

we push desire.

My mouth hangs open

like a nicotine addict that

just quit smoking I want to

inhale you.  Fuck preliminaries

and social codes, fuck morals, fuck

all this bullshit gendered maddness of

roles and what’s “right: and just fuck

me.  You must feel my heart beat

ing over my breathe in your ear

as I lay with my chest on yours and

feel your arm twitch as if you want to

cover up as I simultaneously want to

turn the lights on-see you, memorize you, paint

you n my minds eye permanent-the restraint

on your face, the flick of need in your eyes as

you pushed to the edge of desire- your

beautiful.  Perfect in want. Making me freeze

and realize that there may be something to be said

in going. just. so. far.

I’M SORRY, IT’S THE WAY I AM

From 30 Gold Street

I thought I had told you

warned you I have the ten

dency to hurt the ones I

love-hand me something fragile and

my ten fingers will poke and bruise it like

unripe fruit, your heart is just plucked

cherries, that I don’t mean to, but I still ended up…

self destruction is apparently not enough.

I have enough hatred to spread around

in patterns of heartsick red that is enough

to choke on for two.

IN DREAMS

Coffee grounds caught up in my hair

Through wild strands of blonde chaos

Electrical  follicles a conflicting energy

of their own, together winding an artificial

Medusa whose head writhes in caffeine orgies

because in dreams

no one is ever tired.

 

Green buttons have replaced my eyes

no peyote here I blink shiny, reflective and

plastic illusion waiting for something to come

and unbutton, blink me neon retinal  flesh with

pearls of sunlight worth living

because in dreams

there is no light.

 

My voice is wet feathers, grey

cashmere on a concrete-bounded and

binded bird, weighed down by bullets of

rain, thunder chokes me shoving

velvet jazz down my throat  unable to

sing, notes a muted staggering,  I have

forgotten what music is, ears nonexistent,

because in deams

there is no sound.

 

My legs are an ants only moving

centimemters slowly over tiny metal

objects like mountains, scissors, they fall like

machinery grinding earth, going some

where, nowhere without leaving a

mark in the unsubstantive, I’m digging

holes to stagnate, rock back and

forth and lull myself to sleep in

because in dreams

its so so so easy to forget..

there are no footprints.

 

 

IF YOU ONLY KNEW

For you it is all so comfortably

casual, open air for me it is

waiting for signs, vacancy filled it

is all bitter and tangy metallic on

my tongue, like a gun just waiting

to go off with the casual pressure flick

of a thoughtless thumb and 

finally kill me, the end a bullet

caused by such unmeaning movements, like

the brush of an arm, a touch

of the hand, an

accidental fallback into your

arms as I teeter on a skybound and

rickety chair to turn up the air

conditoning-stop the heat-my hero, I

casually joke, I sincerely mean as you

caught my mis

step, I want to step over the edge

of my skin and reason as we

have these casual conversations and I try to

avoid looking you in the eyes,

My name is turned inside out in front

of  you, your blue round orbs of nonchalant

everything that kills me without seeing me so

casually, I calm the inner scream, the

urge to tell you every story/song I’ve

ever heard-all archived in

my head waiting

to be set free point blank as you

stand mere

inches from me-black pupils ready to

throw bullets just waiting to go off and

send me tumbling oh so casually

into sticky sweet

…

it would be so painless

to just stop the wound with a mouth

to mouth, ache with amrs to catch my mis

steps or with words made of anything but

imaginations.

One Night Sam

From the Down the Rabbit Hole series.

I don’t want to know your name?

It surprises you, but I have already
met You, have known You, have
had You-

On the bottom of the stairs of a
dirty building in Chelsea after too
many drinks (there are always too
many drinks), against a wall in
the Financial District, in a bathroom
tub in Murray Hill, in an elevator up
to your penthouse on the Upper
West Side to continue the cliche
after a coke-fueled night at Bungalow
8, and in a Lower East Side cab ride
and once when getting out of
a cab and stepping into the nights
nothing…

Remember?

Our eyes had met with
mutual approval, with thirst and
so we went for a drink in
Chinatown. You felt my pussy
under my skirt at the bar
and asked me “How long
has it been?” only to find
the answer in your bed in
Soho amongst the piles of dirty
cotton sheets, aimless clutter of
clothing and boxes full
of nothing…

No, I don’t want to know your name.

Does it matter when
the end result is the same?
When your reflection
in my eyes is all the same?
Like chicle, indigestible.
When my reflection
in your eyes is just
nothing…

I will just call you Sam.

So Sam, lets get this started,
Just crawl up in me and
die, fall out purple, used
and rusted, a key that
doesn’t work in a hole
that is already open, but
not unlocked. We are
interlocked. Thirsty, wet and
sweaty. Kiss me, lick me,
eat me, fuck me, forget me before/
during/after as my skin tells
you in all honesty this
is nothing….

Find your goodbye Sam,

See it served on the breakfast
table, the nightstand, the
bureau or in between
the strings of your guitar.
It is over and onto some
other well to quench myself
at, to fill myself with, to
throw a penny and a wish down
and always wind up with
nothing….

Is it wrong that I feel
nothing?

Nothing that is..
except that sweet second
of power in knowing, Sam,
that my cunt is
inevitable?

Why Do We Fucking Equate Ourselves…

And quantify our self-worth too late at night and too drunk at a bar in the reflection of those who didn’t look at us, or seem interested, or salivate over our physique and intellect? Or furthermore, in those who in the presence of our mere existence didn’t need to put on sunglasses to avoid burning their retinas from the glowing effervescence of our being? Why, just fucking why, do we let ourselves feel small, worthless, un-pretty, or just down-right unlovable and full of self-hate?

And while I wish I was just setting this up as a big rhetorical, in which I would go on to expound on just how worthless and stupid and self-defeating it is to do this—-I am not. I do not know the answer and even though I know the rationale argument against the stupidity of human attraction, I can’t help but fall victim to the undeniable sharp sting of the cast-away rejection of a complete stranger.

What Would Faulkner Say?

From Welcome to The Dollhouse 3.0

That in this digital world meant to create convenience and the luxury of time, we have whittled our attention spans into blubbering manic hyenas with mere crumbs of time to read or reflect or conquer or chew something as huge as a sentence ripe with subtext and hopefully thought, with a beginning, middle and end, because we are already on to disprove Descartes with the next indigestable visual feast meant to charge us instantaneously with flavorful visceral knowledge attained without the effort of swallowing or thinking. 

Go forth and fatten the empty reflection in your eyes (They always said a man’s eyes were bigger than his stomach). 

Go forth and choke yourself on lack of meaning.