Cleansing

I cut my hair because I was on the brink.
A haystack of errors gathered in the bathroom sink,
and soon my hair was so short, I was so ugly
that not even I wanted to look at me.

I'm the girl that washes her hands 'til they bleed.
The kind of girl that only silently wants and needs.

My cure is your presence, can't you see?
It's the only cleansing that satisfies me.

Sueño

I.

I had a dream last night.

But the alarm clock stole its memory from me.

Is that what happens when you die?

Your past life nothing more than a forgotten dream?
As you wake up, somewhere else completely?

Or do the batteries simply run out?
And you're done? Gone forever?
Blank slate?
Like a broken wind-up doll?

Does anything pass on?

II.

If you died tomorrow,
I would tuck you into bed,
and let you rest your weary head.

I would lie with you
until the time comes
that I can sense you are ready
for the next step.

You once told me
to set your corpse on fire
and use the ashes
to enrich the soil
of our humble garden.

Because something
good must come of
every
tragedy.

So I would scatter your
fractional ashes
among the roots of the
orchids, tulips,
cannabis.

Let it all grow
up and tall,
reaching towards the sky.

Pluck some in the spring,
place it in a vase
on our nightstand.

I would see your strength
in the stems,
your courage in the blossoms,
and your love
in the persistence.

In fact:

Everything passes on.

endings

Why do the pages keep turning?
I wasn't even done reading
And you take the book away
Saying I couldn't comprehend it anyway
Just because I read all the letters
Backwards.

So now I only read books with pictures
Because they have the fewest words
And I never ever look at the last page
Cos I don't want to get hurt

Keep your tragic endings and your bad news
I'm sick and tired and so badly bruised

I wanted to punch you in the mouth
To keep the bad news from coming out
And I know it sounds absurd
But I place the most blame on the words

Slave Narrative

I haven’t the heart for harsh imaginings.
I am the figure in the window which speaks not.
The spiral staircase that leads to nowhere.
The bit of consciousness stripped naked under
reproving hope.

I am the wondering eye beneath the awning.
I am the gossip borne beneath your daughters’ sheets.
The forgotten sense of self traded for a tiny little hand-bag
full of lies – lies, and jealousy.

I am the old woman, cane broken, whispering power.
The young man who had no lines the whole play.
The forceful bit of grace left in the crevice of
the walls of the local super-mall.

I am the broad spade on the clearance rack.
You will buy me for less than half a dollar,
never use me, then sell me
down the river, always always down the river.

drift-brain

the bits of mind
that wash up on the
shore

the travel-torn
specimen
brought to light

The Legend of Sleepy Hollow

Energy cannot be created
or destroyed.

But it can be trapped
tortured
determined.

It can get stuck.

Out of anguish,
it can force a body to
traverse the marshes nightly
for centuries
while the black stallion gasps below
and the moon stares up above
and the owls inquire as to
who this eternal zombie is.

It is the Headless Horseman.

Propelled by a spirit that craves
its vessel’s missing piece.

For it will not be admitted to Heaven
or Otherwise
without this
rotting artifact.

The hollow’s sleepy sounds
offer no comfort
to this deaf entity.


Not the grass speaking in tongues
nor the frogs clearing their throats
nor the crickets playing organic violins
nor the wind murmuring pagan lullabies
nor the trees conducting static swaying song.

The Horseman’s soul rides through
a silent infinity
propelled by the yearning to escape
the haunting memories of the last sounds
that ever entered the long-lost cranium.

There were bullets screeching like banshees
and bombs roaring like lions
and orders bellowed as if from an angry God
and men moaning like animals suffering a slaughter.

Though the age of the Revolutionary
is long over,
this War rages on in the energy that
cannot remember being born
but can never die
and cannot escape its holding cell
until the impossible
reunion of skull and neck.

23rd & Stevens

I run like water
to the places that
I know you have been.

There is a mist
in front of my eyes.
There is a cosmic pull
clouding my judgment.

Out here, on a crumbling sidewalk,
where I once saw you
drive past,
I run the risk
of people seeing
my sanity
leak obscenely out through my
chest.