26 Elizabeth Street

WINston

my stomach was full of knots

you held me, hand to my temple
hard, tight gaze
...girl, someone is gonna love you the way you deserve
and SHIT, i’m glad it’s not me...
we laughed for hours
close enough to kiss
when only a welcome drift of hot soul caressed my soft n’ tender lips

i jump without thought

naked and unafraid of where the darkness takes me
like this morning, running towards Steck
jumping on a Trojan horse
of first love
enter the coarse
...baby, you are beautiful, but never quite so
much as when a cock's in your mouth...
dripping down my chin
sweat follows a path
down my tits, toward the valley inside the shadow of my craft

we ached for it, didn't we

the unspoken sum'tin, sum'tin caught in pauses and the
occasional parting glance
of understanding
giving away
...my friend, brother, I love you
like peanut butter, like sweet molasses you move me...
i grabbed your hand
you gave a wink
before we hit the Roxy ten toes up on a cloud of smoke n' drink

i miss you
haunt me
like the lily in my hair
your scent
your voice
hummingbird's weight

...yes, wait, i'm almost there...

tidal rabbit

its

its comical crux still escapes me
your picaresque heart denying
a courageous spirit’s quest
the internal war can seem unending
when fighting the truth unbending
to the essence of its very request
you bet, I understand

like the trees
every fall they lose their leaves
without regard that they will need them
as it turns to spring

unpretentious to the core
an assenting tongue on an obstinate shore
spinning material contradictions
the fuck me eyes
your sorry sighs
lead into an obscure hesitation
i’m only beginning to comprehend

like the wind
causing the strongest limbs to bend
just when the fury seems unyielding
it starts whispering again

baby, I try not to wade too deep
in a quandary pool dripping obliques
falling into a river of doubt
where liars bide their time
stroking reason n' bending rhymes
'cuz soon or later the gospel pours out
The circumstance surrounding this emotion
her all-the-way-up legs of former devotion
a bewitched excitement yen hung in your eyes

but me...
I'm as free as a song from my lips
with a gentle sway of my hips
a woman who needs to be touched
how easily untamed passion slips
without permission while my logic dips
in a current that moves me that much
you bring it out of me
so effortlessly
you need only say my name
deep tones with
gentle
seductive
grace
hypnotizing me

we may secretly wish for lasting affection
so opposed to our need to be free from convention
unencumbered by time and the binds of possession
while the pursuit of its fruition
yes, I know, can seem so grand

like the sun
when a midnight's solace at last begun
its authority spreads like fire
shedding light on things to come

miSTAKEn

BITter

I have an antique Irish desk, handed down to me by my mother, her mother before her. Dainty n'dark, despite great care and tons of elbow greasing Ol' English, it has grown weathered over time, its delicate features now dull and listless.

Today as I was disassembling the top drawer to change out the hardware a crumpled and faded yellow page took flight and landed gracefully at my feet.
a springtide
ephemeral
I think she use to be me
cavity of hope harboring pulsating dreams

how strange she looks
a paper doll her mother cut out
innocence full of doubt

someone crushed and threw away that paper doll
she was lace
I am leather

My mother's. In her undeniable hand, LARGE looping Cs and Gs, the slight slant regally defining a perfectionist's need for beauty in all things, even ink. I see her longing, a rocky shore where white sand used to sparkle in the morning light. When I was a child I clung to that rough and tenuous land.

Let go, my love, my blood...for the smooth ocean tide comes to soothe the tired soul.

cRUShed vElveT

Poppies

Early this morning I went through the garden of my teenage years, pulling weeds of misdeeds n' angst, tilling the rich soil of youthful acuteness.

Frannie invited me to catch her recent work, so last night without my rose-colored glasses I took an esophoric walk down a path of phantasma to greet Monsieur Artaud's shadows. Amidst the foggy backdrop a flashlight cradled the intent of his tongue, split between the nightmare of our world and his vision of its redemption through death.

Many things occurred to me as I sat in witness of this brave interpretation, where my own laughter eased the discomfort of surrealism until I could reach a point of comprehension. How humans cringe at the mad unknown, fear a step into deviant ways of dark expression without a bit 'o protection from the ensuing chaos.

It's all too familiar, right? We have all teetered on the fine edge of sanity at some point, and a reminder of that scares the shit out of us. Our bodies have an amazing way of forgetting pain, allowing us to move on and grow; and yet in one instant, the mind can bring back in full force those long-buried sensations. Short of injury, everything we learn is there, a blueprint of the collective 'you' mapped out in Technicolor. Each line touches, but remains a separate experience.

Exiting this mindwarp to dig deep with J led me down backroads. As always, his touch, be it to my heart or my lips, opens channels to expression and self-discovery. I got home, opened a box of old stories and poems, closed my eyes and pulled out the first piece of paper my finger encountered.

Written when I was 15, not very sophisticated and ultimately raw, never read by me or anyone else after the day I first penned it, was a dip in the dirt road to that crazy place called sane.

shut out the light
pull the covers over my head
I wish I didn't wish I was dead
I am beyond pain
I am complete sorrow
is there nothing left

I want to give up
let it all fade away
hidden by walls from the harsh light of day
never come out

I can't get past these awful connections
churn, whirling like wicked concoctions
of acid and sulfur
decay and rot
I'll want to be something
I know I am not
you won't care to find me
no effort was made
so stuff me down deep within my dark grave

I won't argue now
or curse my fate later
give into the inevitable course of our nature

why not?
I've died many times
only erected to play a sad mime
mimicing movement, gesture and play
not really feeling
it's better they say
to go along with the flow
follow the crowd
try not to trip or speak out too loud

but, broken promises hurt more when they come from within
when you can't trust yourself, well, then how can you win
hope fades to jade and might becomes lite
waning, withdrawing into a false night

then anger arrives, laughs at their sin
points a sharp finger with its sardonic grin
no rest for the disturbed when it hits you again

how I want to hate you
but somehow can't
I want to shake this shit off my heel
forget who I was and rediscover the feel
of cradling arms instead frustrated sighs
instead I just cry

It's lonely here
in this small place

tEASE

Often in my short life I have much to say but words don't always come easy. And why should they, it's hard to bear out the inner workings of the mind; flayed like a fish, the guts shining bleakly in the sunlight.



My first boyfriend would attest to this: whenever I was outright angry I would sob uncontrollably and could not speak. His expression was priceless, concern overridden by bewilderment. *pat pat pat* on my arm did nothing more than egg on more tears until he had no other recourse than to leave the room.

The what, why, where, when and hows of the matter are no longer significant, as time erases the ties that bind us to childhood fevers. I can look back and see where it all began, however, I am a grown woman in charge of my own destiny, yes? So, those days of unconscious reactivity have adapted into a cognizant conduction in which I sit back for a spell and appreciate the a e i o u and sometimes y.

They say with age comes wisdom...well, I don't know if I was ever all that wise, but I do feel a greater sense of freedom. I think we have ticking time epiphanies twisting through our DNA, a train stop...a scheduled moment in the script when A-HA pops out and does a little jig. Perhaps love, with its security and warmth, incubates those little fuckers faster; the more love you have the more freedom you possess.

If that is a religion, then let me say AMEN...and thank those who love me for the short and flower strewn path to my innermost voice.

dRIFTing

Poets, Priests & Politicians

There's blood in my mouth 'cuz I've been biting my tongue all week...

Words. God love 'em, the bastards get us in and out of circumstance and condition, pave the way to power and ruin, enact change and allow things to remain the same. As with anything, the yin and yang spin 'round like a wheel of fortune, falling on our own preconceived notions.

A crafty sentence can get you laid, crush a spirit, bring solace, give inspiration, push all the wrong buttons and conversely all the right ones. The beauty of words lie in the hear of the beholder and what is moronic to one person may be ingenious to another. Vibrations mix with intonations, which at the right time and place, move past the old in 'n out to create an impression. A mental painting, if you will, hung in the gallery of our experience...

I wonder what the hallway of my mind looks like. I'm certain it's dusty from neglect, filled with useless knick-knacks and the proverbial Velveteen Rabbit. Mismatched color schemes and crazy sketches keep company with old ghosts, while my curator, a scatty old bat and lazy file keeper, reads old Nancy Drew novels in the back room, smoking cloves and drinking hot toddies.

Have words ever failed you? Cock-blocked by our own abstractions, the words we take in effect the words we spit out.

Anne Sexton, for instance, has been floating around my grey matter, using the loo for her own nefarious purposes. With the rain tonight came a flood of another kind, and when I opened my pretty mouth to spill my need only music echoed back.

So, I called T to talk trash...politikin', inundated with slogans and catch phrases and celebrity endorsements. This is vital, who do you choose and what do you stand for? Romance is in the air, but the crossroads of this debate reside in a side-show where my voice falls flat...even the bearded lady sighs as I saunter past.

A knock at the door delivered my absent representation. Christine, with a blended Cab and a furrowed brow, blasted through my living room and had the bottle opened and a glass in my hand in less than a minute. "Whatdaya say?"

"Ummm..."

She turned up my music, "I hear you, girl...let's dance."