another from 2013

Put me in the stroller
with the bourbon and
apple juice sippie cup

Put me in bed
with that beautiful
woman...
the brunette with
perfect breasts

Put me in this bed,
with the heart mon-
iter,
clicking the rhythm
of all that was
arching and observing

With those collective
flesh memories
when my mind is gone

valium poem

love poem from 2013 (? pretty sure)


I had that seizure
from that too much Valium
and I looked
down, saw myself
on the floor,
writhing,
beyond alone,
I was my own company
beating against
the impossibility
of your love for me.

first new poem in a long time. very rough.

Did I tell you,
I wrote a book
about your hands?
Poem after poem
of lust and phantasm.
That book is there
for all time.
Beyond weather,
erosion or fire.
That book that
in some way, you
carry,
exists beyond
you and me --
even exists beyond
your hands,
who have held my
heart into
the beyond.

Stories about the apartment, 2009

"A Coney Island of the Mind" & lesbian porn,
it turns out,
segue perfectly
with Chopin's Prelude in E-Minor
(op.28 no. 4)

Did Frederic know?
The moans
and the crescendos;
Her tongue
and that piano...
~

Ceiling caved in
yesterday
Blocks of cement
fell, almost,
on our heads
 ~

Redwood--or is that cedar?--
I guess it doesn't matter...
I painted my nails, (Firehouse Red);
and there's Franzia Chianti and Patsy Cline.
There's a letter on some label,
saying keep away from heat and flame--

But, still:
singing out of tune,
Tennessee Waltz
means more...
I blew you,
and you left me.
There is more to this, there's
something outside this--
I Fall To Pieces.
Last night, I was
a great poet.
Now?
Franzia chianti,
and alone.
~

It was
that night
the ghost
turned the gas on
the front burner.
We were sitting in the
living room,
having a good conversation.
What was it?
We smelled gas,
and it ended.
Can't remember.
~

(New apartment--
not the next day,
but may as well be--)

New ghost--
the old one is
Ann's problem now.
An old woman
died downstairs,
it took days...

I saw her,
behind me
in the glass...

She didn't say anything--
What is there to say?

loss

I am terrified to write this post, but I guess I have to.  I need to talk about loss.  When someone dies, you say good-bye.  When someone is presumed-...what?
Arrogance and lack of sight.  And terrible friend. 

She told me that this was her last incarnation.  She was ascending.

She was better than me.

...think i might go back to this series - ink and wax on watercolor paper

walls in fishtown

details from new painting

Moon Sextile Saturn

http://darkstarastrology.com/moon-sextile-saturn/

Apparently I have this aspect.

My only writing, really, is hopeful posts about Tarot on my Facebook feed.  Four Aces for the New Year... The Star and Bukowski ("The Laughing Heart"); Death and Octavio Paz, "Last Dawn".  Trying to re-convince myself of things ethereal. 
Right now the light is such that the scattered snow and sky shine the same pale blue.  A just slightly paler robin's egg.  And everything else... tree limbs, telephone wires, asphalt, are all this deep blue-black.  The kind of black you sink into when you're somewhere between awake and asleep.

I am a small, confusing person. 

I now keep a black scrying mirror on my bedside table, which I cleanse nightly.  I'd like to believe it opens wider the window of my dreams, so that others may enter.
 I know my boyfriend thinks that I am either crazy or just full of shit.  He may be right.  I love him for that honesty.

There is a place where I need to leave an offering, even if it's too cold to even go outside.  The first time I stood there, it was like a portal... a path to the underworld.  There was a weird but palpable melancholy that was not my own, but that I felt and related to.  Persephone's tears are dew this winter.

The Death Card brought up this poem, which I think is so beautiful.  As above, so below; peace and love; blessed be; namaste, and happy goddamn new year.

LAST DAWN
Your hair lost in the forest,
your feet touching mine.
Asleep you are bigger than the night,
but your dream fits within this room.
How much we are who are so little!
Outside a taxi passes
with its load of ghosts.
The river that runs by
is always
running back.
Will tomorrow be another day?