Pay no attention to the girl behind the camera.
All photographs are my work.
I get my religion
from the palm of your hand.
The stores are closing. My eyes are burning.
And one day we’ll realize the second coming happened in an alley thirty years ago.
Everyone around me is as I intend them to be.
Is around me.
And my wicked imagination
Your wikked ambishun.
So I go home early
to undress my mind.
I have secrets in my pockets.
And I have deep pockets.
Deep pockets full of secrets
and you are a
A pocket-picker, if you will.
Was what you found, worth more than money?
There is a line in the sand so there is a scratch on my glasses Was there ever a difference between passion and insanity? Was there ever a difference between dreams and reality? I will sweep this floor until you don’t see me anymore and all that’s left is the hallucinations you never had. and then you will know what I was all about.
I’m having one of those Hollywood moments
And today I’m an extra.
Tomorrow’s wardrobe might change my mood
High heels with high heeled skepticism
and the scene is titled Nicotine Queen
and I’m resentful of the character.
This is a piece from my current project, Poemception. There are poems within poems; some are on purpose and the rest is yours for the dreaming.
You have a beautiful living room and beautiful pillows
and beautiful faces are symmetrical.
But did I ever cry out for symmetry?
Jagged edges have kept me awake.
I’m shouting every thing we should not say.
The contents of the vacuum are sprinkled on the floor.
A bit of ash and deliberately un-papered sand.
And our house is well kept in chaos, with a welcome mat
deceiving the door.
People have been coming at me with sandpaper.
They’re all trying to sell me sandpaper.
And it’s been showing up in my dreams.
Sandpaper mustaches and mason jars.
Sandpaper buildings with
sandpaper people all attempting to
tell me why in none of my dreams are you made of sandpaper.
And I was worried what that meant.
And the emory boards all have PhDs.
A monster’s hand turns the knob of my closet
and his nails are nicely manicured.
And then she said something lofty like,
"We only exist on the inside of imperfection,"
This means something.
Sometimes I just write full pages of nothing.
It’s like letting the air out of a tire you didn’t want inflated.
Her mother had warned her
not to wear her heart on her sleeves
and it was too hot for sleeves
and he had made a habit of carrying things for her
Sometimes I forget I wasn’t built to fly.
I have been somewhere else lately
Real life is far away
Trains and busses, people movers moving people, churches with steeples, lights and sounds and it’s all abstract.
If I were tiny the lines of your palm would be the Grand Canyon
And that is where I would stay.
One twitch of your hand and I would be crushed, but I dream comfortably in the hands of a giant.
Do not wake me, my life has just begun.