china grade stock, jade

little bits of green following me around
room to room, pollen on the prowl.
lost a lighter for a moment to sangia's sway
but like all good things, it comes back round.

you got up in my face all ugly again love
your red lips on my neck, horns in the most
probable places.  still i give you my glove,
like poetry's in the purse or some tangled post

 crossed in a  metacyline moonrise ,
accidentally, and now you have to wear
a porcelain mask just to survive.
have a strawberry heart and some air

take in salts from mineral seas, saran
wrap off those extra inches, the cure
is so much like the disease, only sans
that filled in other

















ahhh gagh




whatever. i keep wanting to write what's on the wall
it's like i curate all these objects that have come into
my house. my house, there i said it i'm an owner again
disrespective of who ever else is living here i'm an owner again
because i have i have , like , responsibility for it, and
i just wanted to make every corner interesting
like the bend in the range top, the two missing burners, baking soda still
in the empty holes where the cats left piss which choked us out
of the house and set of the fire alarm it was so toxic, don't
under most circumstances, heat cat piss. however, if you were to collect it
and add it to a molotov cocktail whatever didn't get burned off would be gassed out
so keep that in mind for the coming wars my friends. the wars the wars
there will always be wars with us. if not in the military bases of crimea
then on the hollywood screens, as a devastation so thorough its consequences
still fund the hunger games, sociologically speaking, which of course has led
to the glorification of women warriors , wars new face, feminized by the pink
bow and arrow sets available at the family dollar toy section in time for easter.
you gotta watch that, promising shit with no delivery. one day she will be done.

well, it's late again. to have someone watching your every move,,it's like, hey man
get a life. i know you got things to do. and also we disagree about cats. the sangria
was good tonight. i added sugar. to make up for the cookies i didn't eat.
to make up for the booze i keep drinking. so no wonder i'm puffy and depressed.
alcohol does that to me. i need to stop drinking so much. start writing again.
all these ways to begin writing again. maybe if i do, love will do the things he needs to do
instead of always watching me, waiting for me to either smiile or frown.
that's like a baby thing. it's weird but my shoulders hurt too much to examine it like i should.
i'm sitting on the blue ball, trying to keep my head straight
and my back straight, and pump some spinal fluid
into my spine, but this pain is is like

off grid

the poem on my wall
says what i haven't written
in so long. a higher than normal
raincount, winter drags his feet
over the northeast, the last greenland
ice sheet crumblling its crusty top
on the top of yankee ingenuity but
 we're on the way to waterworld
let's hope the gene splicers
can get gills for the elite
before the seas swallow the rest of us.
because you would want
the human race to carry on
wouldn't you?



















*(**













it's gonna be hot
 in my kitchen. strawberries
 on the lips of saint toddler grown up
dance for us in your new hat,
 take a bow
take a smoke
move as moon and sun
at the prow of a boat built for two
from a devil's dance and a comic mask
follow the trail of hearts left whole
floating up or down, depends on your view
and how love once, is always/never
 written here on my wall in
braille for the sighted,
 please be delighted, budha chant
slightly rant, the speakers are primo,
tequila tiempo. ia once dreamed
  peace,   enough space for a potted
 germanium to flourish
polished blond floors, tastely tiled, sheer blue curtains
blow like a remnant of your iris. if you'd just open your eyes.

doo doo doo

lookin out my front door.

used to be my window, that song you don't know
running in my ears. now i've moved into the new writing
quarters, set on a wicker iron wood cobbled together desk
watch the march winds roll thru, just like old times.

the desk is portable, even if the battery dies
every once in a while the orangish satin scarf blows
across the landscape, full of mandala and memorie
over an otherwise blank sky. my new front porch
looks good on paper so i invite you over for a pinch
and a pipe. color's on its way as our sun declines
 cleaning gutters is on your agenda

. dough's
rising in the kitchen
 quick as you next to me
 on the couch   sheer
 blue curtains block
 the wind soften the view.


dramatically, the sun takes his time dying
falls through opaque clouds, pinkens.

coming into the spring equinox he
was a lot like you and it scared me
how i didn't see the fist on its way
how i almost ignored the bruises you left
in my eyes.

the scarf mandalays across the doorway
but i don't forget the sky,wan as last full moon's edema.

i need netting on the door, a screen attached with velcro
no one goes in and out the front but the view is nice
i make it my new quasi quest.

i'm guiltily happy with the  new floors.
the piss smell, human, dog and cat combined
down to one or two molecules
 only you and the cats detect.
you follow them with a spray bottle,
soon  those remnants  of my first love's
 scent will be finally dispersed.



it's ok though, she visits enough. :)









so the sun is down and i've ported the desk
to the fan shaped, circle covered green chair
whose perfect mirror sits beside it on the new striped
ocher  pallet rug. on the new laminate wood floors
which honey installed just seconds before my family arrived
for a short visit. i stayed up all night cleaning and carefully
decorating the new space with our combined gewgaws and pix
and my dad and his siblings spent most of the visit
on the sawdust and dirt covered porch. it was a idyllic day
yet the irony is not lost . maybe next time i'll be less inclined
to ocd, focus on the bathrooms more, however mopping the kitchen
floor shortly before falling asleep at seven fifteen am was the right thing to do.
i stand by that.


 he asked me, don't i do enough for you you cunt you btich
and i said omg that's not what i said, that's not what i meant
still he scratched loser on the rusted top of mom's marquis, thank god she's dead
and doesn't have to see this courted suicide and my whole world went black
i did the dramatic slide down the side of the car, holding my face
in my hands, going into the space of ohmyfuckingodhowdidipickanotheronethisisthelasttimeimgonnaloveanyoneimeanitneveragain
pain.and he only felt his. i mutter i'm sorry i'm sorry i'm sorry over and over again
and even though later we laugh about cycles and ptsd it's like a pale copy of all
 those years i didn't know  how mental beatings metastasize.

to top it off, i've begun to do his laundry, he feels free to hate housework
even though it helped keep a roof over his head, he wants to rely exclusively on sex
and i think not.


why do i get sleepy writing of this when i've had way more than enough coffee
to keep me awake all night under normal circumstances. i think that 23 awake, 3 hr sleep
schedule kinda wears me out though. i dunno, could be the silence of the wind
rustling the same palms we took our seussian oaths under, pushing at the door
like a ghost trying to shut off the present.

i dunno, i have closed my eyes now, i'm await
the automatic. try to channle where yuo were
when i wrote this, somewhere on an f fifteen
diamond underbelly  gleam. swalling
our tail behind you.

i think i'll lay down, or move. or
hae a cigarette or something.
remind me how it feels to be in this plane.