Holy Gone Monster

Everyone is seeing up above and beyond

seer's dreaming up all the visions.

  Not one ounce of pure sight is left.

All real estate taken upstream

by the flesh saturating west

from an eastern shore I can see people

but spreading over across the wilds of our barren country's heart lies the way to anima

engrave it on your lover's palm

a love whispered prayer

no snarky remarks that injure or condem

love to no avail

keep your blackened bird smothered under breath

sole mutterings till your death begins again 

but this beautiful bird only visible to wonderkind

lovely creatures in their own rite

spring forward to offer her life

they are her saviors

I dreamed of leaves torn to shreds
and paper children flowered in the wind

I dreamed I killed a whale, rode its hide to the other side of the ocean to find the tortoise lover

she was covered in worries, not of her own
but those accumulated from the tide
barnacles clasped to her body
centuries ago she learned to fly                    and through the water she found more of her wonderkind

lovers and friends

new family myths beginning again

inside of her like embryonic imprints upon her womb

a matrix child, mother in making spirits light 

only when her dark horse arrived to take her home would she rejoice 

for tired and worn were her soles

this empress knight, fighting her way home through all bodies 

running upstream

No valley could contain the sounds of glass she made underfoot

                                                                  

                                            her fingerprints washed off her hands 

she belonged to no country, she belonged to no man.

New think speak

There say luck would have me one day.
Just the day I chose to meet luck out in this wide open world, would the world swallow me a hole?
I make sure to care for my breath and visit you quite regularly underneath it

the words blanketed by the sounds underground, underwater.
Dripping down like honey combed wine from fair lips.
You've got hip appeal and flags that bring down ships to a quiet still.


and still as if to divine and to unravel so much more time is left when you are mine
unraveled thin
like crosshaired love wires
I'm shore
you wave
and so one softened kiss is moore
than a thousand stiff kisses
lets chance again
I miss you and the good lord tht holds your hand
its auburn wonderful
each and every strand
you take care of every one of us girls the best you can
how i miss you so
how i must let go
how i miss you so
how i must let go

En Rapture

Cottage Cheese, a banana, two coffees with skim milk, walked to work in the faint rain.

It is instant, you run into the building covered in blessed stone, tall and pointing towards the sky. A place where you have devoted all your faith, your beliefs locked away in a small incensed boxed tucked underneath the dusted altar. But first, the fire sky opened and the rains came down again as hard as they had ever been, you were frozen again and your tears came down again when your look above you held  the exact precision of the holy building. You ran there first because the town was small and your flashing lights were bright, tracing a path directly into the church, gold bricked and paved to safety. From harms hasty way the ground shook and bodies were propelled forward, heads pointed horizontally erect. This was the rapture covered in lace and you were still on earth covered in dirt as the souls lifted from the ground, whose legs you desperately embraced in gasps. You were lost and winded and behind the words that were whispered in your ears from your childhood memories, like the thunder and the rainstorm passing by, they faded into the ghostly wind. Was your lover not in heaven coming back to encapsulate your love in his bottled potion? Positioned with a tincture to revive you from your slumber white snow lovers, whose winter warmth held the earth's balance and fevered the blistering sun in the summer's brightest rain?

For all year long we waited underneath the fickle trees of lust and their fruit lay rotting barren without seed. Boyhood dreams left unfulfilled were dreams floating in the clouds. How could we recover the sound of the river in our hearts? This rapture wrapped in solid ice caps, unable to breathe but for the cathedral sky, crystalline letting in tidbits of the sun. From its portioned rays grew a deformed vine enraptured entwined round the lines of holiness. Following the light it grew as strong as the the slivers of light would allow it room. 

Will you lie dormant under the rubble until the wind comes off to carry you? Earth overbearing mother, soaring eagle to carry me home in a blue box to the sea.

Violent Waves

A diver falls deep into the pressure of thought and sense and breath, and he waits. He waits until a point that will almost sever his spine, a point where he is bowed by gravity and falls to its pull for fear of caving and snapping suddenly towards death at the bottom of a silent ocean. The pressure of depth overcomes his courage suddenly and he is without blood. He feathers down to the bottom becoming tiny pieces, fragments of photographs, vector lines.  In my dreamthought he can fly and breathe in the waters that consume his heart. but his breath is slow and labored. He breathes in the salt and minerals, the animal fragments, and seashell shards that pierce his lips. Moves change into waves and lead us up on the way down. Of clouds, we are helpless, slapped by the presence of composite goddesses. Is it your desire now to conjure yourself transformed from earth to a crescent waved water god? 

CAMPARI CON SODA

First and foremost I would like to thank the ever adventurous Clifton Hyde, whose interest in the finer libations of the world has brought me to my new standby drink: CAMPARI & Soda. Made with quinine, rhubarb, ginseng, orange peels and aromatic herbs, I am happy to say this bittersweet aperitif

is favored by Italian men awaiting death and now by yours truly. I recently went as far as purchasing three rounds for three friends at a show, quickly converting everyone to the drink.

The slow burn of the herbs and aromatics makes it less likely I will get too drunk too quickly, that said I may indulge in lots more of it because it is so damn interesting in flavor. I savor the moment it hits my palate and indulge in the image of old world Italy, where old men stumble home on their bicycles on cobble stone streets.

I recently found this simple recipe and will have to try it to as an enhancer to the original soda mixture.

We're all going to die, so indulge always.

Bicicletta

Ice cubes
2 ounces Campari
1-1/2 ounces white wine
1/2 ounce club soda
Lemon slices (optional)

Fill wine glasses with ice.
Add Campari, wine, and soda.
Stir to mix.
Garnish with lemon slices, if desired.

Future Sounds of Love and Magic

Two summers ago I began a journey into the world of complete feminine independence. I met a beautifully strong and equally ravaged woman named Teresa Colomonaco. We walked an entire summer holding each other's spirits by the hand, blessing each other's foreheads and playing music for the gods. I cherished that time very much because I was given the opportunity to become a nurturer to my fellow woman and in turn grow stronger in my own feminine magic. The stage was set and when she departed so abruptly, I cried knowing that for the first time in a very long time I had found a sincerely brave soul. One who not only shared my crazy lust for life, love and art, but who could equally wilt like a delicate orchid. Today, I want to share her music as I sometimes do when I feel the nostalgia of the old world pull me in. Teta's sounds are a cry in response to a cruel and devastating world. A past of exploitation in many forms - tribal - family - magic. She is luminiescent and flows over you like a dusted mist. Breathe her in and exhale your wishes because they may just come true.

As for myself, I will one day share all the strength and power I have acquired that began with our chance meeting with Teta in person on her home turf, where she is cherished and nurtured by the land and music.

Teta Mona

"As is Painting, so is Poetry" - Horace

Dreams ooze from their pores and into their phallic strokes. I can't shake them, I try and continue to hide but hit head on into them, swallowing those sharp daggers one by one. Slaying myself continuously. But I would  just as easy be the sponge they're looking for. A soft gooey fluffiness that lives inside their loins.

You're the one who paints the world's figure flat and you're the one who writes desperate illusions in your sleep. I am a sacrifice to devour. A loving meal upon your feet. Your features are rugged; creatures who don't give a fuck but feel so much they ache with all sorts of desires. Babies, young and stupid babies.

In my mutterings: " a minor allowance from these is a form of sorrowful affection."

It is a bitter  aftermath collision that stutters for days. All I can do is eat and drink to plug a void they leave behind in their slimy get away car. It is a phantom void, one that I see walking next to me and not living inside of me. Skin slapping on naked skin type of affection. Supple lips, the inner thigh, a warm beating heart, the sweet of the neck. Who was Jesus Christ without Love?


I am hungry. I ate and ate this weekend purely out of anxiety and boredom. When I return to New York I will do the opposite and feel light again. The Burden of walking down crowded streets. I think I want to sink into a bowl of cereal. Someone once loved cereal. I don't remember who. But I care enough to write that I don't care at all about a stranger who I know for a fact is a breakfast cereal whore.

What is your favorite cereal lover? I myself prefer to fast. Anorexia on me, vomit all over your face. Such a pretty picture of boredom.