here look at me i’m
simply complex doing what
He made perfection
Spirituality
frenesi
my eyes held captive by the metamorphosis of the Cecil a born again building with the stench of human history between its concrete bones no longer a child not yet at the biological end the choices i’ve made dumbfound the soul but if viewed through a lens in the night that i’m alive is sheer bewilderment in the hustle of her of him of them i silently record fragments of life that are not my own if i do it long enough my old memories will be pushed out a tender girl walking her pink bellied pug is a better replacement for watching the forensics team rip open the rape kit or a child chasing a moth is better than being reminded of the day your mother died or when lovers kiss by the stop light is better than when the needle broke in the arm then my pupils chose to focus on a single mossy brick Artie in the 40’s swinging clarinets booze loosed women and ripoff con men coca cola lollipops the book says a time to laugh or cry to live or die the last is nonnegotiable
doulas
sand dunes gray breathing quietly the wind caresses smiles on them like new born babies
those who witnessed the sunrise shiver slightly humming and blessing the horizon their hands usher a new voice
mothers with strong courageous hearts the most sacred foundation for the tiny roots to rise
washing off the stubborn stains of ignorance and calcified time
paving plowing and clearing paths where God and water there do clash and angels become mothers
between grain
there where its black where the seed of my humanness lies where the perpetuation of original sin will continue through my blood line is a photograph
the lens there in is primordial foggy unclear muddied we pick up debris while traveling through the cosmos
in between grains of ink and exposure the sum of me looks for what we all don’t know what to look with
the photo is of a bright yellow God holding me in God hand such as a molecule of mercury can not be contained
and God laughs and rejoices beyond the pale of mere creature understanding the drive when my flash goes boom
traces
the sun she’s sinking down to party in the valley rolling hills full of tumbleweeds thoughts broken desperate for context if only if only if only then there is Sardinia and a dipped toe by a drunken uncle long ago here on the city of angels there city of giants i dig like a gopher i bleed like an ulcer who am i really its no fun to lose your Rhesus at the moment of the light but it has nothing to do with monkey politics i dare say i have no more lice to give
stone
a line followed not straight feet hollowed out by the bumps of life
a beat heard faintly like a radio sign from outer space on a kids ham radio
intuition dimmed heavy without direction like broken jade frowning atop the china cabinet
a kiss blown by aging beauty queens to the princess up and coming
young girl twirling on a pole old man staring at her bones she thinks of tea sets and raggedy Ann doll he thinks of the life he once so loved who is buried six feet under
the flowers radiant pinks and red stems green and full of life across a dirty street i sooth dry skin and raise my glass to Martha
for Poppa
only at Your lap can i find comfort
Bell and Howell
the sun slides down
lays her golden head
on Dodger mountain
i look around the apartment
notice that i don’t have much
just a few books
electronic essentials
some cooking utensils
work files and water color trays
an old nonoperational
Bell and Howell
and i wonder
was it ever
my intention
to live like an old
widowed bitter sailor or
to be a neat little wife
to have douching schedules
and cook kosher Shabbat dinners
and worship at the west side Temple
roll with the punches like ladies do
claw at my chest with dignity
and gasp at the lukewarm horror
that Stanley cheated on Sherryl
while my praised dentist husband
works her very late most nights
or was it ever my intention
to be rich and famous
with lovers of all intersections
and gleefully snort exuberant amounts of blow
while getting handcuffed away to the station
wearing my sexy Nirvana ripped collar t shirt
now stuffed away in my mid week LA night
freckled with hoarse tooting car horns
and blinking half dead street lights
i breathe deeply and smile
wondering what my intentions
will be when i grow up
and painfully emancipate from this
spiritually bereft confusing mess
that squeezes me tight
as she coyly stands
quietly in front of
that old thrift store
Bell and Howell
owl
it’s metal cold in the room stings the surface of the skin a little cheeks flushed 104 degrees cotton fever nothing new thoughts of owls race through the mind far away New Mexico hills in a trip that failed to yield once what was expected seconds hop scotch off the arms of the clock apparitions in white cheap cotton come to check numbers and pulses disgust visible on the face like dust on grandma’s table the owls again the color of wild grain bare footed running with the breeze and the bugs birds of all congregations there to sing solitary ears robbed it’s cold please don’t leave but please don’t touch the New Mexican hills spread out Triple A magazine cover left in the lobby by the father who lost his son the owl took him the Yaqui say fever breaks gauzy cloak frosted from the sin and ignorance lips shiver pale so pale and deformed thirsty for baptismal waters wild wild girl the apparitions come on time oh no it’s her again when will she die my taxes deserve to pay better societal debts please don’t touch the owl she’s my mother looking at me hoot hoot hoot synapse without soul blood without spirit apparition grab the leg and tug cruelly get up it groans tax liability get’s up roughly like a broken transmission New Mexican hills will not be reached like that good bye owl
on the sidelines
the sun feels tender on my face on Saturday mornings the pushcart prophets dive deep bent at the waist looking for daily bread the blessed or lucky or trust funded or me we sit on the sidelines safety nets in special edition knapsacks and gluten free snacks me just a cup of coffee and a head full of lucid dreams that the year has nursed with me in thoughts so little spoken feeling not the slightest obligation to mill through success and failure and measurements of poise dignity and strength i sit there golden sun strokes my she dong and life is lived in various circumstances i for some reason only known to beloved Dharma bums have the privilege to sit inactively here today and tweedle my brains smiling at my chances to my left an angel cries out the gospel in a fevered torrent hexed and exhausted but delivering a message for free without the complications of mega centers and fine Italian suits
