Tonight I drink alone.

it is increasingly easy
to unbuckle these straps
and slip arms out of ropes
step out of this harness

dream of flying with no strings attached

Once upon

spinning gold
needles in haystacks
prick fingers
I'm waiting

come wake me
come take me

stealing salt from
every ocean
bathe me moonlight
wake me sunrise

I'll do pennance
when the time's right
pearls in cloisters
it's a silent affair

eating apples
from unnatural branches
never the fairest
only the boldest

this overtakes me
please try to don't break me

I will find strawberries
in the winter
barefoot in my paper dress
I won't come back empty handed

back to spinning
tales
and falling from
branches
while searching for pearls
in the ocean blue sky

I won't come back empty handed

But I'm tired. Write. It's late. It's 2:41 and i don't like odd numbers. Write. Come on, this sucks, i have work in the morning. Then hurry up. I don't have anything else to say though. You're whining. So what, it's almost 3 in the morning and I want to go to bed. What about what you've been hearing. The laughing, the high pitched chorus of something (screaming?) Stop. You're getting scared again, aren't you? STOP IT! Yea, I can feel it. Your eyes are itchy and watery and you are starting to get the nothing tickles. LEAVE ME ALONE. Then write. Fuck you. Oh great, that's original. I want to go to bed. Go ahead. I can't. I know. Come on. Pleeeeease. Just a little bit more. End on a good note, your reflection is still staring at you in the window even though you are looking at the screen. Does that scare you? Please stop. One more. Fine. One more.

un escape perfecto

quiero escribir en un diferente lingua
y quiero pensar con un diferente mente
porque ahora mi cuerpo
mi alma
no se contenta
cansado, si
pero mas
hay problemas
diferente que antes
diferente que familiaridad
y necesito sueno sobre
otras cosas
como
playas que lastima siempre
y el mar mas azul que sus ojos
porque el aire es seco y tiene frio aqui
quiero respirar el aire pesado y teine calor alli
ahora mi alma se contenta
porque pensado diferente que antes

Family Ties

It's coming, let it come. I'm used to fighting it. Fought it last night and won. Kept it down and body surfed until I hit sand. No reason not to, it's in my blood. And what is in your blood is what you stick to. It's what you know. What the hell did we ever know?

Freedom

tried by fire
so little was burnt away
and i like the way that
you are a singed around the
edges

your hands still feel
like they are in the furnace
burning fears off of
all of my surfaces
resurfacing old hopes

four years old
and I was telling
you secrets under my bed
forever friend the kind
that doesn't have to know
to know

never had it in me to
say what I wanted
what right did I have?
what right do I have?

but one of those fountains
broke apart at my groaning
and washed me away
without asking that question

and both of my hands were
annointed twice over
with alabaster oil
that cost more than I'm worth

by the three that is one
who pours without measure
and dreams outside of my means
and makes pure with his fetters

never had it in me
to know what I wanted
but he dreams without measure
and I like the ways you are
singed around the edges

forever friend
you saw the fountain break open
when you burnt off my outsides
and I knew what I wanted

Flake.

I was supposed to go upstate today. I worked a shitty short shift and made a terrible fifty seven dollars while the snow flakes fell in union square so big I could hear them splat. Or was that the crazy lady at table 213 slurping her spicy seafood soup? doesn't matter, the snowflakes were huge. The tents in the farmer's market were so heavy with them that they might have caved in on the turkey sausage or organic strawberry wine at any minute if vendors weren't jamming broomsticks into the white tarp ceilings to fling it off. And the customers were all a mess. One old lady in a floor length fur coat had at least a twelve inch puddle around her feet and everyone's hair was matted wet and itchy looking. A few europeans were smiling early in the day, happy to be in New York when the first big storm was coming in. By two o'clock even they had sculpted ice faces and the steel resolve of New Yorkers. No point smiling about the swirling white anymore. The brown drudge of sidewalk reality had spared no one in its ruining of sneakers and splattering shopping bags. Everyone had their chins tucked in, their umbrellas up, and their eyes on the next destination. You can't really sled down fifth avenue or have snowball fights during rush hour. In New York when it snows, you just hustle. And I was supposed to go upstate today. So at 3:32 I changed out of my work clothes and hopped onto the N train. The weather had only gotten worse. The snow was wetter and then harder, little hail balls mixed with the residue of white fluff still floating down. I stepped in five puddles at different corners and didn't stop to shake out my shoes. I pushed past umbrella people and poncho people, and angry tourists who didn't know where they were, let alone where they were going. The escalator was wet, the stairs were puddles of sludge, and the crowd was miserable looking. Inside Penn Station now and it was past flower vendors, pronto pizza, and the stupid stocking store with all the legs in the window. There was a tree up in the middle of the grand room and good god, more homeless people than I had ever seen in one place. They were curled up and sitting on newspapers around the entire edge of the Amtrak station. And who could blame them? Who would dare to kick them out in the ugliest weather of the year? I hadn't thought about the kind of havens that airports and train stations must be for homeless people in winter. I squeaked and squished past them and others to the ticket vendor and called Jason to tell him I was coming. The next train was to leave in thirteen minutes. He finally answered and told me not to come. That it was too messy and they couldn't get the car out. But what about the sleep I would get on the Hudson River line on this snowy night? And how awful it would be to venture back out and go home to Queens? Didn't matter. Can't argue with the weather. I was supposed to go upstate today, but instead I went back outside and headed for the closest subway. The E on 34th and 8th to Queensboro plaza and the R from there. No place to sit, it was rush hour. The air was whiter in Woodside. More flakes, less hail. My head still feels like it's in a sieve. Whiplash neck, sore throat, stuffy nose. Maybe tomorrow morning I'll make the trak back to Penn and catch the train to Hudson. Tonight I think I'll stay in.

cue

taking a cue from the past
cue balls and blue moons on tuesday
wondering who would be home
and if she would be dead when i went back
last i heard she was
tatted on the face and hair in dreds
i watched it shake him at the core
watched him shake it off three times
she rolled up dirty towels and opened the gas valves
i held her once when she cried
cataracts eyes and HEP C
couldn't put her down, afraid she'd turn to dust
further back and i remember coffee
and piss and sleeping half on couches
keeping secrets and finding
new dark places to explore
three on the bridge
braiding our bloody entrails together
until we were sisters
i still have the stupid green shirt
and the damien marley mix
that pissed everybody off.
and what about the time we danced
until we forgot that we weren't drunk?
i'm taking a cue from yesterdays
and remembering when grace
found me in the shower
no miracles
just stuttering through
shitty fears, curled up like a baby
rocking back and forth
wishing i wasn't afraid of alive
the time dad came to see me
and we talked in the park
about love, and life,
and he asked me to tell him where he'd failed
we both bit our lips and cried a little.
never been good with that sort of stuff.
so i'm taking a cue from the past
remembering all the secret places i've found
and the guilt i felt on easter morning.
i've learned a lot since then.
am ready to explore again,
still remembering when grace
found me in the shower.
no miracles
just hope. and maybe
i'm not so afraid of alive.

Christmas

getting closer to Christmas now.

Thanksgiving here and gone

and I am getting older.

my glass eyes are smudged

with fingerprints and charcoal,

the season approaches anyway.

Christmas is coming in candles

windows

first snows

children.

It is a dirty ordeal for me

blood and after birth

on hay and manure

sweat and breathing

and him wondering

if she has really never lied with another.

he is the first to hold him anyway,

he will raise the child as his own.

the ground is cold and hard

here in New York

the occasional manger scene

and snot dripping noses

tell me Christmas is coming.

spiced rum eggnog, cheap tinsel

and memories of grunting

and afterbirths,

waiting for the first wet cry.

hope still sits candidly on the

glass eyes of children this time of year.

they turn rosy at a spirit

that they don't quite understand.

others slaughtered hope and lambs

with their fears long ago.

the cynical ones fill up motels and inns

fulfilling prophecies in their filling of

drink. No room for you here.

it comes without pretty trimmings

or l.l. bean sweaters

for me. Christmas is the painful

bloody birth

of salvation.

It is messy and it is mine.

sinew shadows paint dragons on walls
breathe fire on me
don't stop til I blaze

only honest

silver planes with cracks that run
deep below the surface
soot settled because
up here there are no
strong breaths of expectation

a storm blew in when the sun
stumbled and fell below the buildings
I hardly noticed the taste of night
another night, a sweeter smoke
a smell that's worth remembering

these were books not meant to be read
but your fingers were gentle
and the pages turned easy
stories of then and now
wouldn't ask anything more than honest

tomorrow when the frost reminds me
of the first snow
and the gentler arms
I will slide soles into city
and ask nothing but honest

Embers

I felt this anger rise up in me
that isn't normal.
Like to keep it in
until I'm sleeping
Let it work itself
out on my teeth.
But not this time.
Not when it's you.
I pictured big dirty
Jesus.
When he called them vipers.
They are poison.
Jesus would ask
them who made them such bitches too.
WAKE UP! WAKE UP!
It's a heart you are stepping
all over you bitch!
I'll hold you til
there are mostly embers
left.
Still warm.
You have always been warm to me.
Sunshine in your hair
and oceans in your eyes.
Come away with me.
They are dead.
Zombies with too much
foundation
and money dripping out
of satin pockets
no part of them is soft.
But you.
You are soft, love.
You are fair.
There is no spot in you.
You are good.
My friend.
And we will hold on
until we are embers.

Truth.

a scribe
like the angels.
only better,
cause you're real.
Flesh that bruises,
and hands that know
the texture of
a sycamore.
lift up your
broken song,
embracing night.
wish for simplicity
maybe,
but don't ever take
the easy way out.
your time has
come
to speak.
words drop
into an old glass
bottle.
A complex fragrance
of mountain night
and calculated risk.
a scribe
like the angels,
only better.
your time
has come
to speak.

Tomorrow's Today

sleep felt better than I could have
dreamed.
emptied my stomach
of another uprising,
torrents of old words
and new fears
while the night was
still
around me.
I begged him
to stop it,
anything but this.
instead he sat
on the bathroom floor
and held me
in the mess.
Didn't even shower
just climbed into the
bed that remembers
and drifted into
dark.
Woke up with
fingers still itching
ribcage still humming
hair still curling
questions still burning.
But pain floods me
without mercy
and often
leaves without
reason.

Season's Greetings.

I'm tired and can't make sense out
of years of not sleeping.
what do you mean they were days?
Nothing lucky about 7 tonight.
I'm wrapped up in yesteryear's
swaddling
bury me warm
by the ocean.
A beautiful sound
the water on sand.
And the moon is up now
and my skin is pale glowing.
Tired now, of years of unthinking
and where have I been
and why is it hurting?
No space left for
thinking
eat
sleep
drink
be merry.
Ho Ho Ho
set up baby Jesus
in his little glass manger
Mary's so pretty
the barn is so tidy.
A man fell asleep on me
on the 7 tonight.
Some lucky number.
He only grunted when
I shoved.
Invisible woman
with coals
for eyes
and a button nose.
No time for presents.
Is it warm there in winter?
Could we get away for awhile?
I want to go.
I WANT TO GO.
Island of the misfit
toys with the idea
of sand in December.
Fuck I've got to get sleep.
Fuck I've got to stop saying
Fuck.
Merry Christmas to all and
to all a goodnight.

dflkjafwih

Shit.
Can't stop writing.
There are too many to read.
Don't keep up.
Just let me write.
I'll take my time as it comes.
It comes
when I least expect it.
One Earl Grey misto
and three days of
not enough sleep.
More than enough
sustenance.
Sustain
a writhing ball
of where the hell
did this come from ?
Just go with it
she says
and I shake
twitch a little
and then sit. for
one
two
three
hours or more.
and now I click
without the music.
or the sustenance.
Can't keep it underneath my
shiny blood fingernails
click
clickity click
of keys in hand
hooves on pavement
I want dirt paths
and wooded forests
and a mane beneath me
chestnut ripples
cool sweat
and sweet hay
and where the hell
did this come from?
Go with it
she says
and now there are
eager children in my fingers
running circles
playing hopscotch
on the keyboard
scary dreams
that last a lifetime and
some things take time
but this is coming
in rivers
through the mountains
ride through
rock filled waters
and toward the ocean.
The ride is longer than
I expected
It comes
when I don't expect it.
When muscles are tired
both mine and the beast's.
Cool sweat dried to
salt.
And sweet hay to panting
desperation.
Penumbras of yesterdays
catching up.
We're still running.
Through rocky waters,
toward the ocean
don't keep up
just let me write

The Signs

Daddy put the first signs up.
He pounded a Do Not Cross sign
between the tables and the bar
when Aunt Robin took me out to eat.
She put her finger to her lips and scooped
me up onto the high backed stool
Tony winked and made me a Shirley Temple
we didn't tell daddy.

A few years later he swore there were
flashing danger signs at my cousin's
wedding reception.
He saw them when they made a toast.
So we sighed and climbed into the car.
Mom cursed under her breath.

Flash forward to Amanda's birthday
fourth grade. Her mom's liquor cabinet.
vodka in coffee,in orange juice
and straight. I was holding it
when she came down the stairs.
Her eyes flashed red stop signs
and I begged her not to tell daddy.

Sixth grade and boys in cars
and policemen and daddy's
eyes said whore.
but daddy's mouth said harlot,
whoredom.
Sounded like a place to me.

Ninth grade and Baptist
Churches and teary altar calls
and Restricted.
pounded on my lawn
in my bedroom
and so I stopped.

Away from home and
he said he loved me
pulled restricted signs out
of my bedroom
and pounded them in front of
clubs and bars, and every other man.
at least I had the bedroom.

Back to church and signs all over
Do not touch
taste
smell
or listen.
I was skeptical at this point.

And old signs are spray painted now
and new signs are fresh and bright
Posted, Warning, Do not Cross,
Forbidden, Caution
and they make me dizzy

And some are at the edge of cliffs
and some are outside of secret gardens
and more are rusty
bent
and ugly
but it's still hard for me
to tell the difference

10 seconds.

I was on my way to Civil Rights. Late, as usual, with my open computer in one arm, oversized, overstuffed bag slung over the other, and scarf trailing almost on the floor behind me. I was also clutching the final paper that I had just finished in one hand, crinkling it until it must have looked like I wrote it a year ago and found it under a couch cushion just a few moments ago. My boots have no traction and so I slid on the marble lobby floor as I was rounding the corner, balancing my luggage to catch my elevator to the fifteenth floor. The door was already opened and I stepped in and took a deep breath.
Still a little bit happy that I got to have jamaican food for lunch. Anxious and warm from rushing to the elevator. Scared that my paper wouldn't be good enough. I glanced up at the screen in the upper left corner of the elevator to see what time it was. 5:04. Four minutes late? Not too bad. Above the time are fun facts, or CNN headlines, and sometimes even celebrity birthdays or 15 minute dinner recipes. Today it was a CNN headline. A two year old from Mumbai survived a shooting that killed his mother, father and siblings. His nanny rescued him and escaped the open fire without injury.
The next ten seconds of the ride slowed down. I was standing still in what I imagined was Mumbai, in the middle of the dirt street watching a small rundown house crammed in among other shacks and homes. Gunmen with brown skin and dirty camouflage suits, bullet proof vests and hard helmets rushed down the street and looked through me at the house. I could hear gun shots down the street but no one had fired here yet. A woman was in the small yard hanging wet tshirts over a string above the window when they approached, and her eyes grew wide. She grabbed the basket and didn't have time to turn around. Shots were fired and she crumpled to the ground leaving her life on the wall behind her. I felt dizzy and they rushed into the house and I heard a man yelling in tones that translated perfectly into English. Shot, shot, shot, shot. Silence. Crashing, the faint pounding of feet on stairs. Blam, blam, blam, blam. The sky spun and I stood still.
Out of a side window crawled a woman clutching a tiny child. She was covering his mouth and his eyes were wide. He couldn't breathe. But he wasn't bleeding and so I breathed. She ran onto the narrow road over broken bottles and piles of trash. She ran through me and a pleasant bell rung.
The doors of the elevator opened and I was on the fifteenth floor. Heading to a beige room with a mahogany table and huge windows. To listen to presentations about civil rights organizations. Organizations like the Polyamorous Society where adults fight and protest for the right to be respected in having legitamite three or more parnter sexual relationships. The group holds snuggle sessions and swinger's parties where you can hook up with multiple partners without the pain and fear of society's rejection. Parade's where women make out with other women and then their husbands, and then their husbands' boyfriends. And feminist groups who protest any laws that would deter young women from having abortions. They pound their fists and say, "No they shouldn't have to tell their parents! No they shouldn't have to be over sixteen!" Some of the more enthusiastic members even weep when they plead, "These are our basic rights people! We are sick of being oppressed and silenced! Give us freedom, give us freedom!"
And the room spins for me again. Inside of four insulated walls on rolling chairs with arm rests sit about thirty of us. Toying around on our laptops and tuning in to hear about activist groups that want affirmative action, abortion rights, communism, to be protected in their sexual choices by the federal government. We are educated 20 and 23 year old college students. Presentation after presentation.
Break for pizza. Garlic knots.
But for ten seconds I was somewhere else, seeing something else, and I can't make it stop. Can't bring myself fully back to midtown Manhattan and listen to a language that is my own in tones that I can't understand. Fight for what? I see a wide eyed little brown baby, and the strong hand of his nanny slapped hard over his mouth to keep him from screaming. To keep him from dying. It hurt when she hit him, and he'll be mad when she finally puts him down. His momma is dead now. So is papa.
If he's lucky he won't remember. But I will. And I can't come back yet.

Neat.

I take it neat,
because I am not.
Cleans out the fith on its way down.
On the way down
there are roads to diverge on
there are old rusted warning signs
crumbling rock
construction ahead
stop
stop
stop
I do not.
I knew the signs before
they were rusted
and bent by storms
I hardly notice them any more
Any more and the hill
gets too steep.
Branches scratch on my face and
leaves press into my
knees
and hands.
when did I fall?
Why am I crawling.
Up again. I'll take another
neat.
Because I am not.
And make it a double
it's cold out here.