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j.w.w.

my candle is burning to its end and the wax has spilled over the lists that I’ve made to save myself from dreaming.

and this pen is too messy and my life is too messy and the genuine chaos of my existence spills from me the way i wake up in the middle of my visionary r.e.m. drowning in my own overheated pool of utter exhaustion.

and i remember the way the woods smell and how the hundred year old spruce sang to me as she lay down to sleep finally and poetically and my very own personal venus loves to laugh at the ways i shrink, corner, clothe, swear off, must stop.

while the elders are circling in the old tribal dance our eyes reel with the pulse and the fire.and i love the cruelty of it and i cherish the real.

the blood and the viscera and the broken machine that is human confusion and anger and terror and blood curdling love smear across my stomach, my thigh, the air.

blood moth fly into the the flames where there should have been moonlight as i watch their small death gritting my teeth. and sighing.

the way darkness touches nakedness so many little breaths wet flinging hair.

for once i am the artist and you are the poet and we forget to drop our breadcrumbs in the forest and we run without regard for all the ways we sold our children short.

my muse is laughing and yours may crack a smile but they remember not to forget us and we fall together to the ends of our beginning from the storm to only breathing. from flight to only softly touching. be sure my soul hasn't yet left the skin.

now you are off to your always dreamless sleep and i am nursing a candle with my sleepless dreams. golden in brown of my sometimes irish hair and small hands in a field far away from the sun but still drenched in it.

blue temple onion dome of the Russian Orthodox church.

how those gold stars flaked and sparkled and fell away.

like the yellow grass seed i blew from my palm wishing someday I might be beautiful...

Tear down

Step with me
Tear down the walls
With in your conscience

So I can lead
And follow
Past this pain of souls

They can take
And keep they’re secrets
Deepness of words

And life
and loss
Of life

For each of them
Clear the walls

Mute etchings

After being gone so long and then thrust back into myself
some pain awoke inside me
and I
Mute
Etched it into my skin

-

Writen back when I was pregnant

What to do what to do
There is something to be said for silence
And sunshine
My dark hair turning silver instead of gold

I teeter on the edge of something much larger than myself that threatens to swell me up in every way and each action will be a choice of fate…

Sometimes life drops a meteor or a tadpole on your stomach when you least expect it and you have to find time to cry and fight and accept…

And sometimes life leaves you looking for answers on sticks…

In the form of pink lines

I get a shot of nervous adrenaline each time one of these corporeal beings pass me.
And even though he reached out to grab my hand and help me step out.

I could not leave me behind

Drips from the lips

This is the sound

Of the snap

And the break

Of the light

Giving way to the dark

Lost grip

Of your hand

On the shards

Of the night

In the nothingness

Of space

That echoes the thought

Of the bleach in your hand

That you tip in the tea

That drips from the lips

Of the silence in me

Reflection

life?

What is life with out getting tangled up in its webs?
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to go with the bleach

killed myself today

I killed myself today
"It was an accident my dear"
She tells me in my head
A bottle of bleach where the salt should be
Really it’s a silly thing

capture

melted sand

And the small white knuckles
parted her dark hair
Like so many beads of rain down the window
And I believe they would part the melted sand too
If they could.
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Cracked skin

Dolls cracked skin at the base of every step
Of each crumbling staircase
My reflective toys

I am the daughter wasteland
Haunted houses and demons I call father
Dark talents run in the family

As I shatter the ice to let the moonlight in
I hold the moth, mend it’s wing
I am spring rain and the hurricane
It’s the nightmares that cower now

Not me
Not you

shoulders

Raw

Today everyone seems small, from the perspective of the floor that is.

Hunger is scraping out my esophagus in it’s old familiar way.
Old addictions tap on my shoulder to say hello.
And I am tempted to welcome them with warm open arms.

But I seem to still have a life to live, and the only way to do that looks to be with my nerve endings open and bare faced to the world.

Which is apparently a proverbial “sitting duck" sign


Way to attack raw tissue



It’s the only way to live.

Sword

5 inch Hall

Shawls hang in place of curtains in the way of broken windows

Shedding out darknessBut doing nothing to keep in the light

Flavor of gingerbread children still thick on my tongue, long taste buds cling to every last scrap of you.

You my yellow brick road to some false idol that I tango towards, some how unashamed of the tears on my jeans in such an elegant place.

Paranoid creations solidified and destructive on a level creating lies to save yourself from past mistakes.

Nervous shuffling of feet, inpatient in the lack of intellectual stimuli.

Yes the heart can hallucinate when starved of all connections and life can fade away when we no long entangle our selves.

In a world where we are afraid of touch and glance and words. Where cockroach and cockerel become roach and rooster because we cannot bring ourselves to say “cock”

Orange rain clouds may only be hers but my cupid bow lips get to lose them selves in the shadows that nestle in the hallows of his cheeks…as if in love with them.

A shattered manubrium would break my entire comic book papered rib cage so entangled that perhaps, one day, feathers will sprout from my angel bones and I will finally travel

That five inch hall

Lines

Tonight I am sad

Tonight I am sad

It feels like my soul is melting.

And not in that heart warming sort of way…