Tag / poetry

I press.  And the aluminum flavored cherry pops.  Just juice and life everywhere.  Tastes like metal.

Taste kind of hurts.  I squeeze and my fingers get wet.  Stings like shaving cuts.  Stings like exposed dental nerves.  Stings like mint near clean eyes.  I squeeze.

I twist and the fruit gives in.  I watch a tear fall into the glass cup from my cheek.  I like lemonade, but why does it have to be like this.

You sent me flowers.  Who are you?

Did you know it would make me feel loved?  And surrounded by warm, fun things.  Did you know how wandering I’ve been?

They aren’t even flowers, but cabbages.  Brassica cornucopia of the of the decorative kind.  A vase of decorative cabbages with congrats and pride on a card unsigned.

Who are you that thought of me once today so fondly?  And left me with a vegetable center piece I imagine dancing around with a character I can really relate to – you; who sent me flowers.

Secrets begin. Don’t tell me, you said “I don’t wanna know”. I love you so. And I don’t wanna know. Just be magick when I see you again. Just be careful. Secrets begin.

You can see me. On the horizon. I am here, rushing outward. Rushing outward, I am here. It is I, mistake me not.

Will you approach me? From your castle. From your position of fortune and strategy. Overtake me. I am quickly. Lost in fantasy, lost in lonely.

Oh, my memory, how you slip me. Was I/wasn’t I? Were you, too? Dancing wildly through rooms of treasure. Faithful soles – calloused. clean.

Partner, push me, I’m expanding. Partner, dream me into Being. Golden touch me, search me, rush me. Gifts and laughter – lucky we.

Forth comes the nite. A hallow wind breathes Autumn’s health. Everything has changed, as I implored it do. Branches break without second thought.

The night mare rides, lifting souls lost wandering. I have been wandering. The same shiny sidewalks for at least a several whiles.

The underdog and unlikely are my tribe. The possible and presumptuous are my tribe. The chosen and courageous are my tribe.

You remember the last time I floated over the foot of your bed. Like it was a feverish malaria induced dream. Sweat it out. Sweat it out. Summer memory sweated out. Autumn, rock me to sleep, lay me down. Queen Mab, take a vial of any tears. And use them as special effects when crying is called for again.

You search the sky for Venus. Or the star you trust to guide. One day you find the stars disappear against the city sky.

You can disappear along the Blvd of glitter-pressed cement. Another step, another star, so this is where they’ve went.

And feet will hurt and heart will hang with the heavy, wet winter rain. And dream of days and damns make stay the water till we float. To the top again.

Why try to write about it when you can dance about it?

Focus. Focus. Look hard through the lens. I’m a woman with needs. Living in LA. And lately everyone looks like a target to me.

Bullseye. I saw emotion water your eyes. I felt your heart want to leap out and capture me. I saw you try to capture me. But all you’ve gots is a photo and I’m still free, free, free. Nothing like a butterfly, everything like an asteroid – before I ever make it to earth, burning up in space. I’m a woman with needs. Living in LA.

I know I am posing. I never learned shame. Especially the unspeakable is casual game. I strike any position with full awareness in frame. I like new ideas and am open to direction. I need a direction.

For all this energy, a direction, a course. A dangerous woman has dangerous thoughts, of course. And how can a woman, more assertive than most, receive that attention, celebrate the feminine against a backdrop of intentions. And dreams of shooting stars. That burn up before we ever hit the ground.

Open the shutter – do you see me now?

Other peoples’ lives.

The kind with birds’ nests in the eves. The kind with jasmine blooming around the kitchen window. The kind with happy sounds cartwheeling from inside.

Other peoples’ lives.

The kind with promotions and raises. The kind with extra bedrooms for visiting guests. The kind with big smiles in photos tacked to the refrigerator.

Other peoples’ lives.

The kind with bare feet outdoors. The kind with family who live close by. The kind with spare time for almost anything.

I would sacrifice my own, I wish so badly to know what it’s like to live other peoples’ lives.

The day ends when I sleep. And as the hours become shorter and the fate of another minute finds mortality, my urge to connect takes over. I do not want to be alone.

Maybe the smoke of lemon grass will raise this room. Maybe if it is waved and danced and chanted over – words of spiritual forfeit – then peace will find me. Answers will descend. Beating wings from hummingbird heaven or plants underneath me, nourished by my surrender, or riotous demons with thunder for laughing – I will be taken by what claims comfort because I do not want to be alone in the end.