postal

i need to go to the airport.

why not give it to the carrier? isn't that why
we have curbside service?

the one in south carolina was all
snotty when i'd use them.
well, one lady in particular.
 i had to be all honey chile with her

so it was like  excuse me ms. carrier
are you headed to the post office can you carry
these packages with you, i've paid
for the use of your services, but would you like
a glass of fresh squeezed lemonade to go ?

right?  you know those last parcels i sent
got all the way to vermont in a day! i told
 the woman at the airport how impressed i was
 with the service. she laughed, said "you got lucky"

can you imagine ups saying hey man, don't use us!
you're mailing too many packages, dude.
take it easy, btw, here's the number for fed ex.
stamps are a thing of the past. get a printer.


















*()**







there are those that think the boston bombings
are  justification for the government to use putin style
dealings with terrorists. there are those that realise drones,
quantanamo and libya put us in the terror arena.
i can read them all on cnn. laughing at the lady whose lame
comment on russian style search and destroy
brought on cries of heeeeeeeeeeeeelya, so she  vowed
to never post an opinion on politix again. amen sista.















*(()))

some day alla this palentology is gonna wipe you out girl.
look now, you're yawning. just wanna forget
how much tamed lion resides between the two of us
daughter. just wanna laugh about things without
the roar and teeth bared. never gonna be unless
 it comes from me.  sheath those claws when in her reach.

linear lives

past tensely came across a bucket list

  scribbled in the margins.

notes  for the next generation.

as usual we ignored it.

as usual the lesson was learned

after the fact. love in all its spectrum.

just because you say it. 

an open letter of apology to a friend.

dear L  a mystery all 

the sunshine packaging deep water

undercurrents  i'm compelled 

to  write past tense. i waited so long

for you to say hello that when you did

i bit your hand. 

sweet L i'm sorry. heart too small is endemic

wounds the wearer. i've been throwing hope

so long to the floor /yours another victim..

i've similar threads with different colors. paint them all black.

goodbye L, tears are for the innocent.

ask the daisy's forgiveness as i pinch her stalk

put her in the vase with the other things i kill

for beauty's sake, a tantrum's poem.

dearest L forgive ness , does it always come too late?

i have found my way to the heart again. will you join me here?

open letter to a fb fren

let's get this clear it's not
where you chose to post your poems
that elicits my grief, it's more

i thought, since we'd met, shared meals
dreams, nightmare, parent's health, joy, tears--
that we were friends. so when you went
sending your regrets silent,  i realized i was little
more than a way to pass the time
, keep voices at bay perhaps

perhaps i brought them on with my requests
perhaps gentle prodding is not what i do best.

i do not blame you, i'm aware of your weaknesses.
but one of mine is, i fear,  forgetfullness.
i have to cling to pain once caused for if not
i'll do it all again, surprised anew at heat's hot.

i've lost a lot of friends in the last
few years
. end of the worlds do that.
people drop off, rise up in rapture,
 semi automatic their entire email list.

i musta been caught in several crossfires,
but the collateral damage
doesn't seem to be hurting my waistline.
i muddle into work, barely buzzing
 carrying pollen in a sling on my back

mostly i gave up on  resurrection
when my end of the world
stood me up. but it musta found
a lot of my frens, whirled them up
in a tornado and deposited them
in entirely seperate timelines
of contiguous realities.

i peek in from time to time,
an honorary denizen, to visit
those who moved into a higher plane
still planting some beautiful
 gardens of gravel and ghost.

cut off in the tech age

i i i i i


gave you my keys and my phone
stranded with the tarot and a bottle

i don't care i'm
not worried i
think everything's gonna be


did a new spread
asked it to tell me about my life
with the planets representing

we are we are the most
narcissistic west. a mirror 
held up to a fractal


try a little faith a little fear less ness
let the paradox find your doorchime
broken. the tile job half finished
  prophecy mostly fulfilled


i can't fathom how you held 
to your delusions so long i 
kinda thought you were brilliant




gregorian chants,
 the psalter's swing
a tree ring path on a planed beam
when i was an ant.and you
the foot to end my misery.



i think sooner or later all the mystics
call to god as love or love as god
the question of semantics a verge
where the waterfall mists such ghosts as us.




yeh, the dro always takes me to church like god intended.




















now i'm even dropping the separators. i


think that's a stupid idea.











































*(*_______






not everything needs to be written down
we found that out early but it seems a cycle
everyone has to learn. oh, you sent a nude shot
to your unknown internet friend? now he posts
your phone number on revengeporn and you
get calls with heavy breathing and no caller id.


well. um. duh. you just never know about ppl.

take you. i should have known you'd be way late
but no, i always have hopes you will reign it in
reasonably. and you don't. i'm a bit too knight of swords
  i think i told you, i would call you
on the bullshit. if only i could do it with diplomacy.


not my style i fear.

but the sun is out
venus is the queen of wands
this story doesn't have to end
disastrously

if you take a cross to your mouth
lie with paradox. reign  it in reasonably.
i mean sure, this could be so wrong
but it also could be exactly right.

i thought i heard a door, and i wish it was you
we could talk about the overhang
because really, that thing is quite frightening


























)(*))^^((((











 things i've been avoiding:

the her that always lurks the one i don't want
to drive you back to the one you met first.

the drunk driver

texting

the scythe in a surprising form
it would be paradoxical
to lose you as i believe i've found you.
they love that one.


more rational explanations:


you were lat e to everything
your dad needed you to do  those thousand things
you hung out at vera's my god woman
you were the one who wanted to stay home what did you do?


i talked to jacob about his future a bit
smoked some weed, washed some dishes
but i left the pot with the burnt porridge soaking
read some blogs. wrote , like a prayer
for god to read when i find me  again

:D

carillion

A march wind pummels the blinds
The cruelest month holds all seasons
Browned elm leaves skitter over a lot
Christ mumbles for change
On the corner of westshore and evolution
Daisies gather sun in their eyes and wink
At me as i flyby in a piece of steel and glass
No bigger than a thimble puppet on gods finger
Reaching for some hand that will make him real.

weird part of the internet

did they ever find out what caused the dolphin pods
to flee LA, the redwings to plunge blindly into the night,
 whales to beach themselves en mass, tsunami clouds?

end of the world 2012, camptown blasts in the ozone layer
sell off your home, your possessions, your children
the sun explodes at noon, nasa time.

ahhh nostalgia. now the bitumen runs
 rich in the burbs of arkansas, i believe god
has it in for the midwest. all that bible thumping
more powerful than a butterfly's wing in a chaos model.


but we're still here. the clock runneth over
grains of sand in the days of our life
cliche   times in the prophetic underbelly
of the usofa. meanwhile my laurel bush needs trimming
the weeds grow apace, batteries die. are mourned in black screens
recycled into poisoned futures sold short.

butterfinger

the us p0stal office is almost an anachronism.
however, even at post 10 post meridian
the line is steady three deep. a man in a baseball
cap tapes a package together with the machine
supplied by a ten year old girl with long brown hair,wearing
lime green shorts and a baby doll top= his daughter most likely-
via the usps. a very large black woman, wearing black
and white, trundles out of the automatic doors
into a silver suv. the carriage tilts to one side as she
leans out to close the door with a heavy sigh.
rap music follows  her out the lot. early spring
rain runnels the windshield so   when i spy
you thru 2 panes of glass, taping
 the flat rate package with a huge transformer
inside at the service desk, you're blurred
like a special effects montage.
 i think about when you
were someone else, wonder
 if we are rilly still  friends
or if the echo location is faulty
 this far out from ground zero.

my eyes are glass soaked in sky.
bucket lists notwithstanding,
we were young together once
and i want us to be that again  
i stay up till the witching hour to  induce
tranquility and innocence
 in time reversing pleasure.
edit my lines. take off the glasses.

 it's the night of silverr
suvs. polar opposite of the last occupant, this wasp
curves proper, no heaving sighs/ pertness
perspicacity and she's off to the queque, all business.
you wrap diligently through the glass
the wait should be interminable, but it's not
i filled the seconds with  images of you

chasing an image

nothing more  to do, spent the day
value free, inanimately as a polyp.
the more we hunger the less
 we drain  the glacier's viens  .
 iceland runneth  to the sea.

i am a sandbar girl
a tidal woman. tsunami clouds
peel from my dive, i shake
rivers from their beds,
  play  pixie sticks with pipelines
melt mountains into grains all
so you can build  your castles.
 you've seen the teeth
on the coasts and in shanghai
broken, jagged , ringed with sand
cloverleafs, factories, discoteques

i am a sandbar girl, back alley
abortionist, stradivarias aria. puttin on
a little wait. pulling things up
planting them down. i like low tide
when you can walk to the sunset
pull yourself up on a cloud
and step into next morning.
that's how flat i'ma make things.

i'm a sandbar girl, traveling light
just a little water, a littel way further
a tiny bottle used for last gurgles.

icky cont

if i were crow i'd change blog's name
depending on my mood. but i don't have
the energy to devote to that. lost it somewhere
between my last love and this one.

somewhere lost , a manuscript
with literary intentions, forever the best
draft, first draft. i try to explain the premise
to my lover

borrowing from barthe's "a lover's discourse"
the idea that the beloved is always an object
for the lover, and from cioran's  object as corpse
aphorism, i wonder does love exist as an entity
which we then call  god,  and does god
play a game of mental masturbation with us as virtual reality?
  simone weil posits in order for
the universe to exist god had to withdraw
which totally underscores the total resolution of mind
surprise game premise adhered to
 by excommunicated scientologists all over the web.
but i digress. i told him, listen

the character slowly comes to the realization
that love is quantum in nature. it both exists
and doesn't at the same time. the protagonist
loves due to past actions
 or in anticipattion of   future
barely pays attention to present. her tenses
are fucked.