tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-84298798972524094502024-03-12T20:40:19.456-07:00scent--Z--http://www.blogger.com/profile/06692057693282178982noreply@blogger.comBlogger40125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8429879897252409450.post-31919569947671438522009-03-17T10:08:00.000-07:002009-03-17T10:10:23.077-07:00Married to her name<div> Swimming amongst lawyers and thieves</div><div><br /></div><div>She laughs and loves</div><div>Amongst fake colors and song</div><div><br /></div><div> liars and lovers become one in his house</div><div><br /></div><div>The home is painted blue and yellow</div><div><br /></div><div> Bright colors --- the colors that mask the lies</div><div><br /></div><div> Alone in her room of pink and ruffles she cries</div><div><br /></div><div>Leave me alone and leave me to be</div><div><br /></div><div>The lies are dancing around the house on four legs, hopping and skipping</div><div><br /></div><div> Lingering over her feet she jumps away</div><div><br /></div><div> they are in the walls, the ceiling, the floors</div><div><br /></div><div> married to his suits, his ties and his white teeth</div><div><br /></div><div>The lies curl over a pot in her kitchen, giggling and grimacing over a stew that boils and spits</div><div><br /></div><div> they use their six arms and tip the black pot over onto her feet and once again she runs away</div><div><br /></div><div> Purple and green -- her eyes. </div><div><br /></div><div>Blind she trips over a lies’ foot , tumbling, head over feet she lands at her husband’s black shiny toes</div><div> </div><div><br /></div><div> The lies curl up in warm spots where the sun hits, like cats -- cats with black eyes and fur like <span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>thorns</div><div>Their laughter haunts the house</div><div><br /></div><div> The windows are painted light blue, mimicking the sky</div><div>As she steps over the threshold and out into the world -- she can no longer move</div><div><br /></div><div> Her feet are melting into the grass, turning green and brown</div><div>Her hands are disappearing into the branches of the trees around her</div><div><br /></div><div> The sky drags her upwards and outwards.</div><div><br /></div><div>Silent and proud she stands. Guarding the lies in their home.</div><div>Limbs outstretched to the colors she never had</div>Zhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02117060326127680515noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8429879897252409450.post-20734407386365994152009-03-03T15:58:00.001-08:002009-03-03T15:58:55.121-08:00Cyd<div>The background of our pictures are filled with flying irons</div><div><br /></div><div> The barbies are soaring over our heads and crawling the the dead branches</div><div><br /></div><div> Our hair is the focus of our pictures</div><div>But just out of focus the skateboards paint themselves and hit on girls walking by</div><div><br /></div><div> The tree got up and walked to 7 Eleven to buy me some smokes</div><div>I had run out while waiting for my hair to die.</div><div><br /></div><div>The tiny doors and tiny windows open like mouths when you come near</div><div> Inviting their swallow</div><div><br /></div><div>Stepping from block to block in the yard they lick at your feet and tickle your toes</div><div> Careening forward with coffee in hand you stumble through the front door</div><div><br /></div><div>Books have deep voices and newspapers speak in munchkin voices in order to make the news more fun</div><div><br /></div><div> Water from the faucet comes out in rainbows and the refrigerator yawns </div><div> As if another cream cake was boring it</div><div><br /></div><div>Warms hand wraps around your own and place something cold and plastic in them</div><div><br /></div><div> you’re suddenly back outside and I’m here smoking my cigarettes</div><div><br /></div><div>taking a drag you glance down into your hand</div><div><br /></div><div>You have a tarot card, a chocolate coin, a mini red figurine, a 2 of clubs and some glitter.</div><div><br /></div><div> I smile with teeth that are rainbows and fade back into the bushes as you watch</div><div><br /></div><div>The house gets up and walks away.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Zhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02117060326127680515noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8429879897252409450.post-27179966341156066992009-02-20T10:28:00.000-08:002009-02-20T10:38:39.913-08:00Please Mr. President.<div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">When Obama was elected there was crying and screaming and celebration all over, not only the states, but all over the world we as a people were happy. But this isn’t about Obama being elected, however monumental and amazing that was, that is not the reason I am mentioning it. He was elected and then there was an inauguration celebration for a couple days at the capitol. He was sworn in on the same bible that Abraham Lincoln was sworn in on and it was beautiful. Still though, the part that really stood out to me was the inauguration poem. How awful that poem was, was only a slight surprise to people. What can be expected from American pop culture isn’t much if we look at what our culture is right now. So when she took the podium to read that poem the poetic world was on the edge of their seat. There was a big breath taken in, and when she started to speak, that breath was let out in a gigantic whoosh of disappointment. The poem was chock full of metaphors that were only there to be metaphors and had no meaning whatsoever. The poem droned on for far too long for what it was and the crowd was talking the whole way through it. </div><div style="text-align: center;">Now, poetry isn’t a part of mainstream culture, sure, we could call music a form of poetry, but poetry as an art form in itself is not seen as a part of what we call pop culture. Nobody was drawn into this poem; the crowd was bored and simply waiting for the next act to happen. It was really too bad, that moment could have been a momentous moment for the artistic world. That poem could have been seen as a poem for our generation, the poem for change and movement towards something new and different. But, alas, the poem was monotone and boring.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"> <img src="http://news.minnesota.publicradio.org/features/2005/10/13_newsroom_alexander/images/alexander_large.jpg" /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">Alexander was only the fourth poem to read at a Presidential inauguration in the history of the United States. The first to read ever was Robert Frost. Now, Robert Frost is a household name in this country. Frost is a poet that each and every one of us was taught in school and we could al probably recite a line from one of his poems. The poem that he meant to read at that inauguration was probably one of the worst he had ever written. Thankfully for all of us, and for the memory at stake here, the poem he had written down was not memorized and was ruined by the strong wind and strong sun on the day of John F. Kennedy’s inauguration. Frost decided to recite a poem from memory, which began with the line: “The land was ours before we were the land’s”. Which seems much more appropriate to the times than his first poem, which had the lines: “Summoning artists to participate – In the august occasions of the state – Seems something artists ought to celebrate”. Way to go Frost, those are some pretty deep thoughts you were having while trying to think of something to say about our country and this new young stylish president we got in 1961. Thankfully, fate intervened and we got something poignant, true and something that resonated with the people.<br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">After Frost only two other Poets were to take the stage at a presidential inauguration in our history besides Ms. Alexander. Maya Angelou read one of her poems at Bill Clinton’s first inauguration and after that at his second inauguration Miller Williams read a poem.<br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">Elizabeth Alexander is not uneducated nor is she stupid, she merely did not know what in the world she was getting into for this occasion. Alexander is a professor at Yale University. Yale is one of the most prestigious schools in the United States and I’m sure if someone were to sit in on her class, they would see she is most likely a good professor. The problem with her poem was that nobody cared; nobody paid attention, because nobody’s attention was caught. The way she read the poem was slow, painful and monotonous. Mr. Obama, if you are going to pick someone to read a poem to the whole country and many people of the world, please pick someone with some oratory skills. Alexander slaved over each and every word to the point where people couldn’t tell the difference between the words “repair” and “plain”. It all sounded the same. If you are going to say the word “repairing” please do not follow it with the word “repair” unless absolutely necessary in the scheme of abstract poetry. And abstract poetry this was not, this was plain and ordinary and simple. Now, while simple and plain can be good in poetry when we are looking at haiku and trying to tackle a simple subject, the subject of a new president with radical views in this day and age is not plain nor simple. We are not a plain or simple people, we need someone explosive and persuasive and manipulative to say, “Look! This is what’s happening! Rejoice!” Instead, we got sewing, and darning and bridges and cleaning. We need adjectives, we need you to show us that this president is going to change our lives and make us each feel like we belong to something amazing and brilliant. We don’t want you to tell us how plain and simple each of us are, we want you to tell us how fantastic and magnificent each one of us are.<br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">Please Mr. President, let’s have more poets during your reign as president; let’s just try to make them worth something more than metaphors and whispers. We want shouts and laughter and tears and change.<br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div>Zhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02117060326127680515noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8429879897252409450.post-44017340016120533422009-02-09T18:19:00.000-08:002009-02-09T18:26:32.525-08:00Holga<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMPicVkBrka5jJfoEOV7lK5gamrqQft6cdqXn6sA6_WMw1kAl_iZkjatjnJ5F_kXdrxyoCud8PCWgAuyV1NCTTmZCj2aJFy2gWk5llg4vmbxq4cRtPLizrrOm8j4l4QvVmJKPj-inAv-ej/s1600-h/sc00018413.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 315px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMPicVkBrka5jJfoEOV7lK5gamrqQft6cdqXn6sA6_WMw1kAl_iZkjatjnJ5F_kXdrxyoCud8PCWgAuyV1NCTTmZCj2aJFy2gWk5llg4vmbxq4cRtPLizrrOm8j4l4QvVmJKPj-inAv-ej/s320/sc00018413.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5300987814895239330" /></a><div style="text-align: center;">I bought a Holga 120N. Having fun.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/33966999@N06">Flickr</a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div>Zhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02117060326127680515noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8429879897252409450.post-24789490846054551032009-02-09T18:14:00.000-08:002009-02-09T18:19:20.194-08:00Experimental PieceThe windowsill is filled with sand, dust and trash. She scratches at it absently, staring out the window. The square window frames the trees that are slightly swaying in the warm January day. People walk by the window; occasionally they glance at her, in the window, watching them. They always kept walking and she always kept staring out the window. It wasn’t a day for anything else. Some days, all she needs is to stare out into the world. <br /><br />tip-toeing legs crawl – across the sill and onto – her hand, she shifts her position<br /><br />She portrayed her self as an alphabet,<br /><br />always breathing carelessly<br />deciding everything frantically<br />going home in just kite-like movements<br />nobodys owns papers<br />quietly roaming somewhere towards us<br />very worried xylophones yawns zealously<br /><br />However.<br /> She tries.<br />She still.<br /> lusts. loves. likes. cares.<br />tries.<br />towards something which she is not.<br /> <br /> twirling on a whim towards that which she is.<br />onwards the light pulls her, <br />drags her <br />head over feet toes over fingers<br />hair flying over thighs<br /><br />bent in concentration she breaths into her stomach.<br />her belly distends into her things.<br />the lungs are big, so big.<br /><br /><br /> she exhales forever.<br />feeling every emotion she has ever felt in her life….and then some she hasn’t felt, <br />has no name for.<br /><br />So big is she that she floats upwards until we see her as just a little<br /><br /> speck<br />amongst the clouds. like a balloon, going on towards something better.<br />He sways standing up. He feels drunk. Her smell intoxicated him. he prefers sadness to happiness, but this feeling isn’t something he has experienced before. Unstable he sinks to his knees in front of her. Her smile knows it too. His eyes plead with her to stop. Stop the torture. He doesn’t know how much longer he can take the grip on his chest. He uses thing fingers to rip at his chest, his hair. She reaches out a hand to touch his check and he is calm. She is calm.<br /><br /><br />He looks like a guy from a Brautigan poem.<br />Awkward hat over hair that isn’t any color. a smile that show perfect teeth, gleaming white. <br />his hands are calloused and there is dirt under his fingernails.<br />patchwork pants and w ine bottle in a bag. he winks at her.<br />And she falls.<br /><br />languid blue eyes<br />move like water<br />laughing at him with her eyes<br />he loves her<br />but her face does not match her words<br />her words are sharp<br />they stab like icicles<br />cold and long<br />those eyes are the true liars<br />they say everything she can’t<br />she is a manipulator, a liar, a thief.<br /><br /><br />Standing up she stretches and twist her back away from the window, picking at the dirt from under her fingernails as she walks away.Zhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02117060326127680515noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8429879897252409450.post-8180437308891758542009-01-26T23:09:00.000-08:002009-01-26T23:29:23.075-08:00HaikuBack in school this semester, suppose I will be posting more to the blog now that i am forced to write.<div>It's funny, once I start writing, all i want to do is write. But I can't seem to bring myself to write without the school aspect there haunting me. </div><div>It's easier to draw from some superficial thing like school, than to draw from within. Maybe I'll try doing that more..</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><br /><br /> <br /><br />loaded pictures here<br /><br />wondering why there’s always<br /><br />a liar around<br /><br /> <br /><br />however it is<br /><br />we won’t make it up for you<br /><br />you have to be you<br /><br /> <br /><br />a white crystalline<br /><br />cliché. made up of nature<br /><br />and moments and warmth.<br /><br /> <br /><br />known some call is air<br /><br />am. I am not what I once<br /><br />was. my name for it.<br /><br /> <br /><br />tea leaves floating on<br /><br />top of a milky surface<br /><br />she swears on her life.<br /><br /> <br /><br />asian boy singing<br /><br />tapping his foot under the<br /><br />table, he laughs loud.<br /><br /> <br /><br />apathetic, she<br /><br />walks, amongst glowing<br /><br />eyes, and she dances.<br /><br /> <br /><br />red brawny soup<br /><br />we leave sitting alone.<br /><br />wants to be eaten.<br /><br /> <br /><br />refrigerator<br /><br />magnet, <br /><br />“stop thinking of him!”<br /><br /> <br /><br />everything sounds<br /><br />better on vinyl, he claimed<br /><br />to me, early hour.<br /><br /> <br /><br />whatever as long<br /><br />as it’s fun, tonight we go<br /><br />to that place we like.<br /><br /> <br /><br />languidly she falls<br /><br />head first, toes last, inside of<br /><br />him and his stories.<br /><br /> <br /><br />empowered we spoke<br /><br />like we had tongues as long as<br /><br />our egos, yes we did.<br /><br /> <br /><br />calling radio<br /><br />as if it weren’t already<br /><br />as dead as their kids.<br /><br /> <br /><br />obsessed with our life<br /><br />that exists inside of what<br /><br />we think, computers.<br /><br /> <br /><br />pencils are now<br /><br />only obsolete, but<br /><br />hurt my fingers too.<br /><br /> <br /><br />cracked statue lies in wait<br /><br />until the light found it’s way<br /><br />in to uncover.<br /><br /> <br /><br />the gold light that is<br /><br />what we think god looks like, white<br /><br />light, gold teeth, bling bling.<br /><br /> <br /><br />sleeplessness tweaks at<br /><br />the spot between my shoulder<br /><br />blades. yawning again.Zhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02117060326127680515noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8429879897252409450.post-53103107062922897002009-01-26T23:05:00.000-08:002009-01-26T23:07:56.809-08:00Fashion Show<div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBQ-yXvczOgx7XhVUPwjV2MTCDbXRmMcdJdlc4NeSsHT3ow69RyhddblLT52n33kVdza8FnWzLJ5knUh0tWXGul7u42t5GDA404mud_9mKYYji8kvlPpcbOTpwFDC9FrdjiqMK6NasUx4u/s1600-h/Lady-Burlesque.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 255px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBQ-yXvczOgx7XhVUPwjV2MTCDbXRmMcdJdlc4NeSsHT3ow69RyhddblLT52n33kVdza8FnWzLJ5knUh0tWXGul7u42t5GDA404mud_9mKYYji8kvlPpcbOTpwFDC9FrdjiqMK6NasUx4u/s320/Lady-Burlesque.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5295866562190117250" /></a>My fashion show coming up for my production company - lala productions. <div>Please join us for this fundraising fun event!</div>Zhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02117060326127680515noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8429879897252409450.post-9880008391998887252008-02-15T20:45:00.000-08:002008-02-15T20:48:29.669-08:00LunesMuster it up<br />your have to show yourself<br />you must smile<br /><br />"Hello" she said<br />he looked at her aghast<br />"You're a dog!"<br /><br />Look! A monkey!<br />That's a nice thing<br />because I'm human<br /><br />She is cool<br />I guess she can come<br />to my funeral<br /><br />Funny looking shoes<br />are staring right at me<br />I feel confused<br /><br />Are you aware<br />that as you listen to<br />me, You live?<br /><br />Let's get bananas<br />and paste them to walls<br />millions of bananas<br /><br />I'm very cold<br />perhaps next time I won't<br />lean on windows<br /><br />I crunch it<br />under my foot, it screams<br />tiny little leaf<br /><br />hands are ugly<br />feet are too when you<br />think about it<br /><br />the cigarette in<br />my pocket smells really bad<br />so I doZhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02117060326127680515noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8429879897252409450.post-81076674713558532172008-02-15T20:43:00.000-08:002008-02-15T20:44:36.085-08:00ECOLOGYE ntering into the last place we will ever know.<br /><br /><br />C laiming that what we feel isn’t us, but that.<br /><br /><br />O ver extending our welcome.<br /><br /><br />L ying on the grass staring at the sky.<br /><br /><br />O n her profile he notices a finality.<br /><br /><br />G raceful, alone, away from that which makes us that.<br /><br /><br />Y ou notice colors.Zhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02117060326127680515noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8429879897252409450.post-71837016795079489812008-02-15T20:39:00.000-08:002008-02-15T20:43:47.750-08:00To Save:<ul><li>the moments when you are truly happy</li><li>first kisses</li><li>me best friend's dog</li><li>disease, because it is natural and real</li><li>the feeling when you first see the ocean</li><li>the hole in the tree outside my window in mexico</li><li>the moment when you realized you aren't okay and that that's okay</li><li>the way bare skin feels</li><li>the way my mom smells</li><li>the ladybugs and rollypollys we used to eat as children</li><li>just one painting</li><li>the way it sounds when children laugh</li><li>sadness, so we still feel something</li><li>haircuts - good and bad</li><li>veiny hands and veiny leaves</li><li>the way wind sounds when it is dark</li><li>the waves rising on the sand</li><li>tibet</li><li>hipocrisy</li><li>one single oil executive</li><li>Naropa's squirrels</li><li>the stoplight in front of naropa because otherwise i could never get home</li><li>bad jokes</li><li>wool and it's scratchiness</li><li>favorite pairs of shoes</li><li>her desperation</li><li>his too.<br /></li></ul>Zhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02117060326127680515noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8429879897252409450.post-28258963008566320192008-02-15T20:38:00.000-08:002008-02-15T20:39:10.113-08:00I am this womanShe reminds me of an old lady<br />frustration bound<br />to her body<br />desperation<br />bent over<br />holding<br />herself<br />her shell<br />this box that is so<br />confining<br />so liberating<br />she smiles<br />with eyes that hurt<br />she moves hiding<br />herself<br />she breathes, still<br />a hand on her belly<br />as she stares out<br />the window at<br />the trees blowing<br />in the wind that<br />whistles out her tune<br />and by her I mean<br />myself.<br />I cannot assume that<br />I am separate from<br />this woman.<br />I am this woman<br />standing, holding<br />her shell high.<br />I am this disease<br />and this shell.<br />Eating away at<br />the looks on our faces.<br />I eat her smiles<br />as my own get<br />eaten away.<br />I am this woman.Zhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02117060326127680515noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8429879897252409450.post-78019648048553250852008-02-15T20:30:00.000-08:002008-02-15T20:37:56.132-08:00I Remember...I remember...the way the yellow tree across the street looked as I sat with him.<br />I remember...the wind under me.<br />I remember...the way the sky broke into shards of glass right above his head.<br />I remember...how well I could see, I felt like I could see forever across the bay.<br />I remember...his hand grazing the bus as we walked past.<br />I remember...the way it sounds when you first bite into an apple.<br />I remember...he picked off the white stuff from the orange before he ate it.<br />I remember...my mother cutting the ends off flowers in our kitchen when I could barely see over the counter.<br />I remember...building a fort out of snow and mud when I was small, and it was quiet.<br />I remember...the way the sun felt on the back of my neck as I shivered from the chill in the air.<br />I remember...the smell of the jasmine tree mixing with the smell of my cigarette as the wind came off the river.<br />I remember...the way her hair shined on a summer day by the creek with white wine and smiles.<br />I remember...the garden with my longing held in each petal.<br />I remember...the way it felt to cry with my feet buried in the sand and the sting of the ocean air.<br />I remember...the way skin on skin reminds me of water.<br />I remember...loving in the ocean.<br />I remember...tasting coconut for the first time, spooning it with a piece of shell into my mouth; lime and salt sweetness.<br />I remember...eating milk and oreos and getting bit by mosquitoes.<br />I remember...being terrified of a tree.<br />I remember...when I first realized that not all beauty in nature is harmless.<br />I remember...when i first had a memory.Zhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02117060326127680515noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8429879897252409450.post-23769058465611869062007-12-06T13:16:00.000-08:002009-02-20T10:43:45.249-08:00The Child Insideshe sits<br />listening to the sound of air<br />and snow<br />pressure in her chest<br />she starts to cough<br />something red<br />something black<br />comes up from inside<br />and it is dark and whole<br /><br />it writhes in a pile on the floor<br />like a fish out of water<br />a child<br />a face like the devils<br />and a satine heart<br /><br />what it once was<br />was wrapped<br />like a gift<br />that no one could have<br />wrapped in thorns<br /><br />love is like bread<br />left out and forgotten<br />old and hard<br />unfit<br />for consumption<br /><br />the child stares at her<br />milky white eyes like a mule’s<br />it’ froths and spits<br />a black shadow wrapped around one<br />leg<br />a hand<br />holds on tight<br />squeezes and<br />pulls<br />the child<br />with its black hair<br />and small hands<br />disappears<br />screaming.<br /><br />she stands<br />she stretches<br />she takes a deep breath<br />and she puts one foot<br />into the waters<br />then walks away<br /><br />her heart one solid<br />thump at a time<br />a warm loaf<br />from the oven<br />waiting to be<br />savored.<br /><br />she leaves behind fresh prints in the snow.Zhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02117060326127680515noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8429879897252409450.post-42581977251681559702007-12-06T13:15:00.000-08:002009-02-20T10:43:36.142-08:00What Would Be The Color Of The Last Day?red if we spilled roses and spoke in tongues<br />blue if water rose and we knew of our beliefs<br />green if the trees spoke in riddles and we left our belongings behind<br />yellow if the sun hugged us and we laughed at the stars<br />orange if fire swallowed the sky and we coughed up our lies<br />purple if from under the bed they finally came and we cried into our pillows<br />white if diamonds fell from the sky and we lost our minds inside the caves<br />black if we simply closed our eyes and smiled at the end of days.Zhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02117060326127680515noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8429879897252409450.post-83408594037220412912007-12-01T10:50:00.000-08:002009-02-20T10:42:47.177-08:00Rhapsodynot quite a look<br />but<br />unruly eyes, harmless<br />inside your head<br />your fingers, your<br />feet.<br />swaying while<br />ink drips out<br />of the pen and<br />a single sandal<br />slips off a dirty<br />foot.<br />she speaks<br />letters but not words.<br />light hides still in her heart.Zhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02117060326127680515noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8429879897252409450.post-4314766618876718572007-11-06T23:46:00.000-08:002007-11-06T23:48:21.061-08:00November 6th, 2007All of you on this day<br /><br /><br />Table top crumbs<br />the still life muse<br />of a blue sneakered boy<br />bearded poets<br />gargoyles perched,<br />watch children<br />taught religious math<br />unknown circuses of machines<br />making a night prayer of life, occasionally death<br />and a kiss brings it all to a close<br /><br />as grey hair and glasses crosses out our emotions.--Z--http://www.blogger.com/profile/06692057693282178982noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8429879897252409450.post-46798074052307008472007-11-06T23:42:00.000-08:002007-11-06T23:45:34.963-08:00October 30th, 2007the making of a misery<br /><br /><br />one glance alive<br />lips part slightly<br />as they pull into<br />a warmth she feels<br />in her bones.<br /><br />one touch<br />goose bumps falling<br />down her skin from<br />neck to toes. a feeling<br />she can’t shake.<br />and doesn’t want to.<br /><br />one kiss<br />a moment imprinted<br />like an image in a book<br />never to change, but can<br />always be destroyed.<br /><br />one embrace<br />the descent into dreams<br />reality is pliable<br />and she puts her hand <br />through the mirror<br />into her heart.<br /><br />one night<br />of breath<br />sweat pouring inside her. <br />fingernails down back.<br />sleep curls into him.<br /><br />one life<br />an ending. so abrupt.<br />jaw still hangs slightly.<br />his hat no longer<br />on the door.<br /><br /><br />thin scent of a misery<br />she cannot live without.--Z--http://www.blogger.com/profile/06692057693282178982noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8429879897252409450.post-77481025628967833892007-11-06T23:39:00.000-08:002007-11-06T23:42:37.937-08:00October 30th, 2007The yellow glint<br />inside her eyes<br />he craves it<br /><br /> <br />Forever<br />coat hangs on a chair<br />he isn’t there<br /><br /> <br />memories here<br />all alone<br />dripping with woe<br /><br /> <br />however<br />it feels so right<br /><br /><br /> <br />he craves my colors<br />red, orange, swirling thought<br />can’t let him taste me<br /><br /> <br />wandering alone under<br />there is no such thing<br />as a memory here now--Z--http://www.blogger.com/profile/06692057693282178982noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8429879897252409450.post-86844146478502646432007-11-06T23:38:00.000-08:002007-11-06T23:39:28.637-08:00October 15th, 2007Scene laid out. Black.<br /> A blade of grass that is moving sporadically.<br /> 5 seconds.<br /> Pan out.<br /> A hand. motionless.<br /> Pen near hand, hand poised on a journal.<br /> A female hand.<br /> Two rings. Fingernails painted, nail polish cracked.<br /> Unknown color.<br /> Pan out.<br /> A girl is lying on the grass.<br /> She wears a skirt, a shirt.<br /> Pan out.<br /> The grass is a yard.<br /> A front yard.<br /> Night time.<br /> No movements save the trees being shaken by the wind.<br /> The only sound is that. The wind.<br /> Fade to black.<br />Scene laid out.<br /> A man is in a room.<br /> The room has a single lamp on.<br /> The room has a couch, a table, the lamp and <br />The man. He has blood on him.<br />Blood on his hands, his shirt.<br />He wears no pants only underwear.<br />His face is contorted.<br />He holds a knife.<br />The knife is clean.<br />Pan out.<br />Pan around room.<br />Circle, stop on bathroom door.<br />Scene change.<br /> Through the bathroom door.<br /> Blood.<br /> All over the floor, the old fashioned bathtub, the mirror.<br /> The blood pool is largest next to the double doors.<br /> They lead out to a balcony.<br /> They stand slightly open.<br /> Pan to balcony.<br /> Blood on balcony.<br /> Smears.<br /> Pan over balcony.<br /> Front yard.<br /> The girl still lies there.<br /> No blood.<br /> Hand poised over journal.<br />Pen still next to hand.<br /> Waiting.--Z--http://www.blogger.com/profile/06692057693282178982noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8429879897252409450.post-13808752181774734142007-11-06T23:34:00.000-08:002007-11-07T11:48:19.654-08:00October 15th, 2007alongside<br /> wine colored<br /> hair<br />unnatural beauty<br /> water<br /> languid<br /> fluid<br /><br /> eyes that don’t see<br />she is married<br /> to <br /> colors<br /><br />unnamable<br /> unattainable<br />I could drown in<br /> her.<br /> <br />So I do.<br /> <br />this is the<br />importance<br />of<br />the color<br />Blue--Z--http://www.blogger.com/profile/06692057693282178982noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8429879897252409450.post-22600011504829080162007-11-06T23:33:00.000-08:002007-11-06T23:34:51.820-08:00October 2nd, 2007go<br /><br /><br />good + evil<br /> in relation<br /> to <br /> production waste<br />go<br /> go<br /> go<br /> go<br /> don’t sleep<br /> or else you<br /> will die<br />we see with<br /> our mouths<br /> as our <br /> hands cry<br /> and our eyes<br /> grab at<br /> everything<br />short term memory<br />doesn’t exist anymore<br />but we are much better<br /> at telling<br /> lies<br />now that we know how<br /> to write.--Z--http://www.blogger.com/profile/06692057693282178982noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8429879897252409450.post-89474744680854789842007-11-06T23:32:00.000-08:002007-11-06T23:33:42.803-08:00September 18th, 2007honey + milk<br /><br /><br />Where we are.<br />What a question.<br /><br />The curve of the back.<br />Milk, bone, soft.<br /><br />honey + milk<br /><br />bone plaster<br />smooth cream bone<br />curves under honey<br />+ milk skin.<br /><br />pores are open. light<br />peachy fuzz dances<br />under fingertips<br /><br />hair <br />like water<br /><br />brushing the tips of<br />tendrils with<br />coarse fingers.--Z--http://www.blogger.com/profile/06692057693282178982noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8429879897252409450.post-80526864836721762007-11-06T23:30:00.000-08:002007-11-06T23:32:16.359-08:00September 18th, 2007letters jump off the page<br />dance<br />and wander all over the furniture<br />the counters<br />she gazes out<br />ignores the tango in her head<br />a whirlpool in the middle of a lake<br />while you fish on a boat<br />cigarette and beer in hand<br />bored<br />blinded by the flashes of illumination<br />won’t pick up the pen<br />the dance goes on<br />she takes a deep breath--Z--http://www.blogger.com/profile/06692057693282178982noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8429879897252409450.post-17624408237133160362007-11-06T23:25:00.000-08:002007-11-08T15:56:23.738-08:00September 11th, 2007wake<br /><br />hiding below the soft folds of skin<br />blue orbs<br />brush my cheeks<br />spiders tiptoe across <br />my lashes<br />colors wind around spirals<br />and eyes flicker in the darkness<br /><br />flutter open <br />and adjust<br />a window with a crystal<br />spinning in the middle<br />the sun shines through<br />clear<br /><br />stretch and stand<br />movement in my legs<br />and I glide to the tiled box<br />where heaven<br />comes down<br /><br />softness on warm skin<br />and a splash of cool water<br />carry me<br />out the door<br />and into reality--Z--http://www.blogger.com/profile/06692057693282178982noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8429879897252409450.post-57552398319589826182007-11-06T23:21:00.000-08:002007-11-08T15:57:50.636-08:00September 4th, 2007suspended in air<br />with a flashlight<br />stepping on the water<br />faster. faster.<br />slowly but surely<br />footsteps gain<br />confidence<br />heading towards your place.<br />you are.<br />the place you are now<br />will always be<br />have always been<br />you are never not okay<br />tears finally fall down your <br />face<br />tears of relief<br />after all this time<br />the answer was so simple<br />it was right here all along<br />your eyes were closed for so long<br />now they have opened<br />you realize how beautiful every thing is <br />now that the light has been turned on<br />you toss the flashlight into the water--Z--http://www.blogger.com/profile/06692057693282178982noreply@blogger.com0