Fountain Of Confessions On Amazon

Fountain Of Confessions

Fountain Of Confessions is now available on Amazon and Amazon Kindle. I look forward to hearing any feedback on it. Thank you so much!

Little Golden Girl

Sounds like you are lost
right behind where you are almost are
What are you doing here?
Swiping what I have to say about that?
It is I,
making sure that no thieves take the golden honey
from the hives.

We all are natural friends to befriend
the bees, but you have lost your way.
On the way, your treasure melts
away into a way to let go.
You’re almost there, save me!

Honey for everybody!
I hope I never see another world
covered in seagulls.
The bees are enough for me.
Little golden girl
you are perfect
in your comb
waiting for the right time to
find your way to where you almost
can be.

Mosquito

Where does this come from, this sand in my head? Turn me upside down, let me start over. Or no! Fill me with water. Let me mix into mud. A grown sculpture standing still forever.
The baby sleeps on his knees, a peaceful meeting place for angels, while I shake over sounds buzzing around. The devil is here. He flies on tiny wings, hovering over my head. Do you smell him? He is clustered with dust. The baby just turned. He struggles for breath. The balance is off today. Its all in my head.

Mosquito

Where does this come from, this sand in my head? Turn me upside down, let me start over. Or no! Fill me with water. Let me mix into mud. A grown sculpture standing still forever.
The baby sleeps on his knees, a peaceful meeting place for angels, while I shake over sounds buzzing around. The devil is here. He flies on tiny wings, hovering over my head. Do you smell him? He is clustered with dust. The baby just turned. He struggles for breath. The balance is off today. Its all in my head.

Doctor, Tell Me

I am going to be. Here,
in a sticky womb,
a living room made for
madness; a sautéed fanciness.

The feast is being set,
just above the chandelier,
they call me by number,
my tattooed slumber calls.

White isn’t always padded
or strapped. Most likely
it only surrounds
the dark blue ring
around the sunburst I look at.

I think I am a painting.
Rembrandt is too gross, but
Picasso, he is enough mystery
to create me.
Half of me sprawls across the cold,
I wait for night-watch to
twist me back to form.

The other girl squats in the corner.
I smell feces and antifreeze.
Do I dream? Can I dissect the fumes of
the dead?
Her charred body crawls toward me,
she removes her teeth.
Everything glitters like a shadow.

Then, I am here. In the morning.
It isn’t the sun that tells me,
but the number, tattooed to
my skull.

Doctor, tell me, has Picasso gone home?

Caterpillar

Ink is raining again.

Stan, on the radio, rapping tattoos
onto white-trash girls,
sitting, spinning on bar stools.

The highway is moving ninety miles
back, to late August madness,
cars are splashing

into phone booths
left over from big cities
and light houses.

But ships don’t come in
like they used to.
The calm of the sea

isn’t the color of God’s
angry finger anymore.

Caterpillar!!

Across the back of my shoulder!
“To rob.” “To pillage.”
“To suck the ink out of every living thing.”

My name is not what matters.
The alphabet is random.
My fingers have no pattern.

I’m bound to and wrapped around each syllable
like a piece of cabbage.
An appetizer. A long, soft caterpillar
eating my way into you.

Crickets

In spite of great solitude
come the chirp, chirp of
the night
dripping like water droplets
down the sink drain,
straightened out loud,
a philosophy.

Alone as a daydream, deep
in a honeycomb,
nobody comes,
nobody goes,
rolled up in my own cigarettes
horror chirps in
the white plaster.

All day, mold forgets to grow.
It understands it is just a story,
not like the crickets that
chirp, chirp all night,
catching my sleep in their wings.
I miss them terribly
when night falls down drunk
and puts them to bed.

I wait for twelve hours,
picking hair from rubber carpet,
melting soap into black licorice
for the old neighbor man
with the old hat.
I wait till school buses smile
and wave good-bye to
the highway.
I wait until the waves of L.A hold
the last handful of
sun, till the crickets come.

I Am Not The Same Size

To speak up on Sunday
when religion strikes like
the back of a hand

would be a sin. To question
a written truth bound
by message and baggaged with
fear

would be unthinkable.
But I do! But I do!

I let those words of hymn drain
slow down my throat,
digesting each He and Him,

and I am not the same size
as my companions in these walls.
I am unworthy.

I am faithless in my tongue
because I cannot taste it.
But I do! But I do!

I am full of confession, I swallow them
like bone slivers after the fasting.

My prayer is splintered by
knees on the floor.
My Dear God, humble me more!

Stuck In A Jar

If I count on the hours to happen
regularly, I’d be stuck in
a jar, afraid of measurement against
anything.

Instead, my cells vibrate against
all odds. I crack eggs, scrambling
locked brains, eating for the
sake of eating.

I have only been substantial forever.
Nothing more. Just my face,
along with legs, and hands that
move like a floppy clock.

But my name, now that is something.
Every hour that comes,
every hour that goes,
will remember my name,
just the way my cells will remember
how small I am,
like an ant stuck in a jar,
burning from the most toxic hour.

Termite

I see that one arm is stubbed
by something. No one else can see
this, like it isn’t true.
To them, I am tragedy,
and I let them.

I am a hot potato
and they drool over food.
My crippled hands shove their
mouths full of muscle.
They like it raw
and tough.
So, I give them my back bone
to gnaw on,
they snap it like baby pea stock.

I spend two years in the ground,
done with legs
and feet
and toes
and balance.
I buried myself in dirt,
living with termites.

The thing about termites that no one else can see,
is that they aren’t true. To them, we are tragedy,
and we let them.