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.

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.

Cosmos

Lift my head from soft evil;
a black chest I know
to well,

arms that swing sharp blades around my throat.

We meet where day begins,
after black out thick ends…

smoke smothers from my pores –

I remember the Cosmos,
shooting up the stars,
crawling out of his damp position

and lift,
            lift,
                lifting off.

Janus

By doorways and walls, I pass through
with two faces. I am honoured
and assassinated by fruits and
seeds of the people.

They move their lips, I hear deep shrills.
They whisper like big cannons
at battle. I keep each as a sacred
stone; I throw each as a poisonous tale.

Today, God loves my motion. I merge with
Galileo under seven planets
I am his Dialogue on the Ebb and Flow of the Sea.

But tomorrow will take me suspiciously.
Medusa will come to show
the bogus end of Venus and her beautiful phase.

White weasels come in pack, they smell her
insidiousness; she sits coy on my tongue
while I am categorized.

Back to square rooms, black chairs,
flat carpet,
doorways,
walls,
I pass through with two faces.
I am honoured by amber vials,
assassinated by the pills.

They move their lips,
I hear fuzziness and laughter…
quit laughing at me
quit laughing at me
I am a statue,
I am trapped here.

The End

Pink tissue shivers
– pins and needles –

poisonous seeds
grow like mushrooms

in stolen wombs.

Mozart marches
like I’m a
masterpiece

black and white
piano keys

I’m nothing less

than spoiled by
venomous seeds
that started me!

Apollo

Peel my eyelids away from my face
help me focus, help me see
reach into my center
kiss my galaxy

I spin madly away from this life
gnawing on dead space
his fingers spread deep
white laced with heaven,

I swirl toward angels and hell
all at once
He is Apollo –
Both God and Demon of love

I puff on his glass , inhale his acid
He takes me to paradise
with wings
covered in black ice

When he yanks me back to this truth
I fall to my knees and pray
I want him to stop
but beg him to stay

He smiles
then rolls his fog down my throat
God gave me my heart
but this Demon has my soul

Miss Serpentine

The bells began to spin without chime. I noticed them
long before her blue hair reached out beyond arms length;
azure fire serpents striking!
The bells twirled and whirled, and I noticed them
before her coiled locks hissed at a lush, worked field.

She had been a craving. Jellied breasts flopping
under moon beams,
underneath heavy breath sheets.
There is nothing like a beat red short bed,
the first bit of skin stretched,
meeting dropped blood-lets by a first night sunrise.

She was a place of blue bells,
lemonade peels,
sleepy grass on lazy jazz fields.
Her mind marked with umbrella lace covering May days.
She was marked by a farm boy first night.

I watched her as she carried the bells.
Big steel bells, pretty stainless chimes. She danced with them,
her long, gold locks wrapped in a warm embrace around them.
She chimed. She jingled with southern foliage while
her feet remembered his.

That’s when the bells began to spin. They twirled and swirled
and she didn’t notice them. She was wrapped in a warm night
with another’s appetite. She was cuddling with the crickets and
midnight winds.
On and on and on this went.

Forever couldn’t measure the time. The sun had went blind.
The moon sweat itself dry.
I watched and realized just how thin my own breasts were,
and I was grateful.
For one day came when she noticed the silence of the bells,
she recognized the twists,
and the turns,
and the absence of the crickets and midnight and feet.

Shock came at her, a black bat of attack. Her golden strands
suffocated, turning as blue as that cold moment.
And there she became.
She stood with force against the night fields,
Miss Serpentine, on fire,
blazing lush, worked fields back at Mister Red Short Bed and
her overstretched skin!

The Child Within

I promised a seven year old girl
that
sixteen years would never happen

“don’t be afraid of driving, it will never happen”

in her rancor,
she pissed off a ten
year old girl’s
silhouette –
it was a hollow
young thing
but

outlined in
potential

the young early version
stepped into her
vacancy,
thickening
throughout
the
void
angry
silhouette,

she ripened

in body,
in vocabulary,
in age.

Sweet,
sultry,
sinister,
sixteen,
finding small doors
leading to
thinned
ice,

crystal air
loaded,
ready to explode.

She picks at
glass plank
floors, pulling
strips
of her new tool.

That young one
so afraid,
timid,
playing hide-and-seek
with her
developing
womanhood!

Enough!

She clutches
on to
her
shard sticks,

carving away
at her pumpkin
arms,
her pumpkin legs,
digging her out…

that little
phobic brat,
quivering around
her
prime
poisoned internals.

I made a promise
to the little
one,

sixteen would never come,

now here she is;
butchering
my promise
and
my child.