Proverbs 25:11

It isn't difficult to crawl
back into familiar caves
getting lost in
well worn
paths
through familiar woods.
familiar day dreams
fall like hopeless
leaves
in autumn
crunching under foot
and the air is as
crisp
as an apple
even at dusk
a few strands of gold
fall across the
dying ground
painting familiar pictures
on the
hopeless leaves
that crunch like
apples of gold
in pictures of silver.

I am too many words
and there are too many miles
left
to be silent just yet.
I want to dip my fingers
in every pot of paint
and fall asleep
a mosaic in the sun
dry blues cracking like
deserts on my arms and
emerald green legs peeling like
dragon scales
when I wash off my
orange
violet
red swirled hands
it will be in oceans
far far away.
There is nothing magic
about travelling
except for the dust that
travels with you
and the sun that sets
on every ocean.
I am too many words
and my thoughts are jumbled.
Remembering the old faces and
wide open spaces that didn't want
me to leave.
Imagine a great dome of a sky
and prison bars
made of tall grass.
That was a life of
comfort and little else
and I want more.
Words are spilling and splatting
on this life of a canvas
and I can think of little else to do
besides swirl and make new colors
with my fingers.

Ugh.

I want to be writing every day.
I've got nothing.
I thought it would get easier.
It hasn't.
I don't feel like I'm training for a marathon and getting better with time and constant practice.
Instead I keep tearing ideas out from my heart and head like looseleaf paper from my binder, and I am running out of ideas. Running out of heart and head to tear from.
It doesn't get less daunting.
In fact the white spaces on the screen are starting to haunt me. This computer doesn't give a damn if I ever type on it again. But those white spaces won't let me go.
I've got nothing.
I thought writing would get easier after going through sixteen years of formal education.
Instead my sentences are stopped short by road blocks asking what the hell tense am I supposed to be in, and why do I keep changing lanes without a signal?
Diagrams splitting infinitives and making a science out of an art.
I just want to write.
I've got nothing.

some favorites in new york for $5 or freer

gyros at three a.m.
jazz in the west village, no cover
coffee shops that you can sit in all day
sleeping on the roof in the summer
subway rides from queens to coney island
the brooklyn bridge
beef patties in harlem
dimsum in china town
the little church around the corner
different festivals on 7th avenue
subway performers
walking to the river
free concerts in churches if you know where to go
clubs mansion, home, guest house, gypsy tea room, webster hall
mamoun's falafel
bubble tea
the fifth avenue bus ride from Columbus Circle to St. Mark's place
the Staten Island Ferry
staying home.

I was just looking through some of my old stuff. Stuff that I remembered in shadows and impressionist visions. No concrete memories of what significance any of it really had. One poem in particular I remember submitting in my creative writing class for a poetry assignment. I got an A on the poem, and seeing the title saved on my computer, I opened it expecting to be surprised at how good of a writer I was before college ruined my writing. It was absolutely awful. It was the sappiest, most drawn out poem that reached for intimate detail and overshot by about a country. Shit. The poem was so bad, I imagined what I would do if a friend of mine ever gave it to me and asked me what I thought about it. I couldn't do it. There is not one redeemable line in the poem. And it isn't me being overly critical because it's my work, it is really as awful as all that. Good God, it frightened me. One or two years from now, I could look back on this and think the same. Gulp.

Tender Flesh

Take me to new places where I can
Eat my kill with bare hands
Meat is sweeter when flesh meets flesh
Streets are dark
And eyes are street lamps
Glowing yellow
Dim, persistent.
I will be your tangled barb wire
razor edges, hour glass curves
surrender met with racing pulses
you fight hard
I fight harder
Take me now to brand new places
Hearts are meaty
Eyes are tunnels
Street lamps flashing faster faster
Driving running
Predator prey

Found this envelope I had written on awhile ago.


"What color would you like?" she asked. I looked for blood and smiled sweetly.
Fingernails that shine like desire because justice is a few years ahead of me. I thought about love as they made me a woman. Made me mud masks instead of mud pies and I said, "It's all the same to me." But what is love? Is it the reason fingers and toes are laquered with come hither? Is it why face is rubbed smooth and sealed with cold cream? All for this thing called love? It ends up with barefeet and sweatpants and drinking tea and looking at the paper. But does it start with pharamones and laquered fingers and glowing cheekbones and a few pressing questions?
"What color would you like?" I looked for blood because we might as well start honest.