when beef was wild

when beef was wild

cowboys were real. they jumped on

their truly broken horse

and threw dust in the air.

they stuck a knife in between

their teeth and gutted the shit

out of their dinner. they spit

blood and mucus out on the grass and

rode from lightening bolts and His great

thunder. when beef was wild

cowboys had a job. they had women

who made cornbread proper.

cornmeal and water. none of this

extra shit. spoils the flavor.

they sat round a

wagon wheel table and

spoke of indians and gold. they spoke of

building fences to claim what was

rightfully theirs. they shot

people who stepped on their ranch.

they got up every day ready to do what they had to.

they went to bed full and satisfied.

wyoming

wyoming

clouds look like they're on interlude.

we could reach up and pull each one apart

like it was cotton candy. each particle separating from itself

but not wanting to let go. stretching and tearing.

they move across the sky,

following the bus like

an old ship, fierce and majestic. their shadows hit

the rocky fields and

mountains acting as spilled paint causing

anyone to feel small.

and as the bus turns into wagon hound rest stop,

i wonder when i'll be home.

Red Lipstick

outside of the quaint café

we throw in-tact fox

skull's for our little

domesticated troop

while sipping on

sophisticated potations

spiked with evan's finest.

he applies his red lipstick

while she barks orders

at pup one and pup two.

i cover my ears in frustration

for that fox skull is

too pretty and broken

too perfectly at the jaw

to become a toy for

an inbred chihuahua.

(i feel that she is always taking control)

and the lipstick he puts on

makes his lips look

surprisingly thin which vexes

me further.

(those lips were so kissable once)

strange parisian man

comes and invites us to the gardens

and with a decision made

we are there arguing about

trips to france and the re entry into school.

trips to france will not do if one is

serious about school! trips to france

helping with lighting when one know's little

about lighting.

the dreams of an anxious young lady

demonstrate paranoid anger and loss

and usually leave a cold sweat on said lady's

pale smooth forehead. the lack of control

on anxiety stricken dreamy nights that one might feel

is completely part of the process of

figuring shit out

and must run it's vicious course on the

left and right side of the brain.

(mostly right, she can tell by her headaches)

Hannibal

Cannibalism, shnannibalism!

I'd rather eat some brownies

stuffed with weed,

or hey fuck it! Mushrooms!

Then I'll march down some hip trails

and look at the clouds turning

into paintings and out of reality I'll go!

Yes, and when the nausea kicks in

and I think of Hannibal the real Cannibal

I'll let out some ridiculous scream and laugh

and start down some crazy spiral of tears

swollen eyes and basic hysterics.

I'll stand in the middle of some parking lot

and watch a car wait for me to move,

and I'll feel really brave, like I'm stopping this car

from making any progress. Any progress at all! Yeah!

Until the person gets out of their car

and shouts at me to move! And I'll just run away

like some deer who only eats grass,

praying that no one will eat my brains!

18'' x 8'

doing breast examinations

listening to the talking heads

on a bus

with levon helm's crew.

slippery people in my ears.

the engine is making my spine vibrate.

drums

guitar

keys

electric synth

VOICE!

shake yo hips,

lady! go! go! go!

Praying Mantis

when i wake up

i see spider monkeys wrestling on my ceiling

with bunches of golden hay in their furry hands.

as they pull themselves together

and stop tearing apart at the yellow

curly dry grass

they begin to weave webs

and add old trojan wrappers

and movie ticket stubs

and leftover sushi

to their tangled mess.

as i look closer at these mad monkeys

i make out chunks of golden greek curls,

soft and lifeless.

and that becomes my only proof

that you were ever real,

that i had a good night,

that i had a delicious meal.

jazz

i’m out one night to see some smooth jazz. and this is real exciting because i like jazz and it doesn’t come around these parts too often. oh and this band makes your knees rock and shake and sort of sway and bounce in a real fluid sort of way. and it makes you say ‘yes, yes, go, yes!’ as if you were some beatnik in 1950s san francisco or something. and i’m watching this group go, with a jazz goddess on vocals in a smooth low cut dress. and all of a sudden i’m real sad. i can’t even shake it; sadness that is completely inevitable only i don’t realize that until i’m in it. cos this lady singing away makes me jealous, she’s so perfect and she’s doing all the things that i wanna do. only that’s not really true; i never wanted to sing with a jazz group or any group, i’ve just been drinking too much at this point and think that i’m a sad nobody, or something. but this girl up there is singing away and i think, damn she is just perfect and all i can’t be and i’ll bet ya she get’s to go home with the only guy in the world that would make me happy, and he’ll just love her and lick everyone of her inches of body and i’ll get dog hair on my old stained sweatshirt. but than this girl does something. she’s in the middle of some high sweet note and she starts fixing her dress, but not like some sex machine or someone flirtatiously adjusting some invisible bra. she more grabs at her chest area like she thought the dress wasn’t even there anymore, like the dress had fallen down just a smidget of an inch and exposed some little cute mole that she’s really embarrassed about. and she thinks that everyone notices something that only really a person whose body we speak of could see or care about. like when you think you’re having some amazing hair day or something and not one goddamn person says a thing, cause everyone’s watching their own reflection. and she get’s all antsy about her dress for a few seconds and i think, oh phew she’s as nervous as me. and then the whole narcissistic world comes crashing down on me and i try to drink my ego away even more, but that only fills it up more of course. and i can’t even be out anymore cause the whole mess of jazz lovers around me just reminds me that no one in there really cares about jazz, they just care about looking like they care. and it’s a mind blowing truth that makes me sort of sad. but it’s an oh well kind of a place and well shit, look at the bright side, at least you like her dress and at least you wanna shout ‘go! go! go! jazzy lady keep on going!’

sounds like

how do i write the sound of breath?

the sound of in-and-out life. through

two nostrils, out one conversation starter.

meditate on a pile of driftwood

with no-bo-da-di to spoil the sound of

nature's blues and jazz. ping, slash, swoosh, wow.

follow a sunset until it rises

and never miss a beat.

melt butter on bread

and melt bread on tongue.

les poissons aiment vos orteils salés !

donnez-leur un festin !

the fish love salty toes!

give 'em a treat!

put toes in sand

and sand goes to soul.

soul

needs

sand

and

salt.

put toes in sand

and watch your footsteps cross

the water world.

put

toes

in

sand

and feel old souls.

om shanti, salty, soul-tea.

ommm.

the sound

of breath

is just

too sweet

to even

call it noise.

(whisper)

a revision to 'muted melody'

walking for 1,000 miles,
in 4 seconds.
BAZOOM!
pavement turns to hot sand
and the bull’s skeleton
hangs around me in transparent trees.
take a break. breath.

lying down now,
on my side, with
fiery quicksand surrounding me.

and then
a hand, appearing lovingly.
what trickery!
and what a beautiful hand.
it’s you, it always is. you.

you
pull
me
in closer.

come back.
no, no. no! you promise
you’ll never come back
with me.(he swearz it!)

running now. barefoot.
hot sand smoothing calluses
that have grown for
two decades.

the bull’s skull hangs
in invisible nature.

i
start
to
scream,

but dull black noise
is all that comes out.

(it’s time to wake up.)

And I'm tired of writing sad poetry, and I'm tired of telling sad tales.

I want to listen now

to Moon's

lonely whisper to

her saltwater lover.

The one

who froths and foams

and dances

on Sandy Earth.

And I hear the sky cry

for her Salty vixen is always

daring Moon Maiden

to come down and dance.

Sand promises to smooth

Moon's craters

and polish her luminous surface

if only she'd come down for a drink.

But she can't.

And she sings

sad poetry and tells sad tales

while she watches her Ocean

make love to Sand.

Narcissus

Filling your ego is the easiest thing I’ve ever had to do. (half-true)

All the way to the brim the gold liquid rises; faster and faster it goes

the smart, sophisticated things you say. (My god don’t you realize, you really aren’t that clever; I am fooling you.)

Like a little boy you splash about in compliments, never fearing that they

might stain your hipster physique. Quite frankly, your vintage look is boring me.

Of course, I am the real fool. I waste my Saturdays in bed with you,

half listening to your sweet ideas and mostly gazing into your

hazel eyes. Thinking about their desperation, your dizzying desire

to be free of stereotypes, to make all your dreams come true, to use the women as your momma that wasn’t there.

(You must have been fed by a bottle) Sweet boy, I will kiss your cheek once more

and laugh at two more jokes, and then I will have to roll away and go to sleep.

For this is pathetically boring, this young love thing. I’d much rather

sleep by myself.

lost

mad to live jitters in my spine and my true soul. everyday. but the shouting inside can’t articulate out. send all thoughts i feel to the press! the warehouse where things get done. no, no, i know. no one knows. anything(really). we are all hoping to make some noise; we all deserve to shine. we are exceptionally creative animals who make it all up, all the time. well done! answers cannot always be found(unless a green fairy knocks on your broken window). my mind blowing ending to this lost rift will never come. there are a million truths for a bad day. there are a million loves to be had. and a million drinks. and she(i)(me)(he) is never done talking.

Nuggette of Light, I Hear You

Respond.

questions usually follow your statements

that slip from your lips, your hips, your stare.

soul sister or is it demonic twin?

yikes the ironic friendship

the synchronized sadness

and love-ness and loneliness.

i see your bunny and i raise you

a guinea pig named after the greatest

love story and a corroded dog

that fell upon my lap on a day

of bull shit 'thank you now pass the tators'. insane in what brain and where?

fever isn't my only excuse for aggression towards my mother

or my old apartment which burned down last week

in a dream of mine.

brown and icky and sticky lilacs are the most beautiful thing alive and dead.

revealing their age and the inevitable with each peddle that drops or dries

just like my fear, just like your reality.

dance in the mirror for six hours and admit love

but then spit on love because love is hate just as

breath is life.

never really knowing what i am talking about i respond to you

and you respond to me and so on and go on and keep on keepin' on.

hazel eyes that spin our brain until it's vomiting important information out and leaving only charming moments and then wait! shit.

anger. the morning after. fuck the morning! the life after him.

nuggets of light and life and love and truthful depression

pile high on the window sill when i smell

herbal conditioner and find dark brown curls on my pillow.

i'm a blonde. life's a brunette, kicking my ass and kissing my neck

and promising to never love.

up and down and push and pull and here we go a wandering

down the youthful path of elimination.

self loathing and self loving. it's all right and it's all so wrong. valentine's day is for the single people to be thankful and for the relationships to burn like california or beirut.

truth is i think about mars more than venus. and that, my imaginary friend, is just plain boring.

Purple Toes

purple toes

coming out of the ice.

peasants walking by

asking for a chance.

fire escapes

my torn lungs

and owls cry

in the trees.

running on empty with

fake words i don't understand.

silence is the only way

to truly make some noise.

a chance for love

and a good meal.

it's all i ever want

in this life, today.

good love comes

and feels like a dream,

but when it leaves

that's when life begins

to be so real. you are

the soul that feeds

my heart. and you'll never

know how alike we are.

purple toes fall off

my feet and ice becomes my blood.

chances come and then they go

and i never know what's right.

Muted Melody

walking for 1,000 miles,
in 4 seconds.
pavement turns to hot sand
and the bull’s skeleton
hangs around me in invisible trees.
take a break. lying down now,
on my side with the
gold sand surrounding me.

and then
a hand, appearing lovingly,
tricking me.
what a beautiful hand.
is it you?
a silent yes slips from
your sweet lips
and you pull me in closer.
come back with me.
you say no, you promise
you’ll never come back with me.

running now,
barefoot. hot sand smoothing calluses
that have grown for two decades.
the bull’s skull hangs
in a mysterious oak.
i start to scream, but a
muted melody
is all that comes out.

it’s time to wake up.

Meningitis

*This piece was written a year ago when I actually was delusional and feverish.

I’m lying in bed and my perspective is that of one point. I am stuck. I am moaning and all I hear are the neighbors next door. Moaning. Joyously. While I am here with my dog throwing up next to me and my head exploding with infectious mucus and the phone has fallen on the ground far away-too far to reach. Am I dying? I’m dying. What is that light-that bright orange light coming from my front door? What the fuck is that light doing on? Did I turn it on? Is that even a normal light or is someone shining a flashlight in on me. The world’s biggest, brightest flashlight is shining on me, the thing is huge and brother believe it is bright. I must be dying. Years later I’ll look back at this, yes I will still be alive because I, in fact am not dying, and I will say wow, that was some infection. Everything is so distorted through the fever that I am carrying. The flames of this disease are taking over my mind, my spinal cord. I go to the doctor a few days later and she literally says holy shit when she looks up my nose to see blood and neon green mucus. Meningitis she says. Oh fuck that’s why I’m in such a bad mood. My mom thinks I’m rebelling but I’m not, I’m just tired and shit ma, I got meningitis. You should be saying how much you love me, saying your good byes. This is it mom, I’m dying. You’re not dying dear. What? I am. The doc says I’m dying. No dear, she says you could have gotten close to death, how’s your back feel? It fucking hurts I have fucking meningitis what’d you think? Shit I never cleaned up my dogs throw up-it’s just sitting there drying in the floor; the floor of my “one bed-room” shit ain’t a one bedroom. More like a studio. And what the fuck was that bright light? I never got that answered.

Kimchi

Yesterday

I bought a typewriter for $9. Also

I bought a sack of Drum.

The typewriter is broken

but is motivated and determined

to tap-tap-tap real soon.

The tobacco is moist and easy to roll.

My Heart is wanting some Real Love

but that won't be getting fixed by me

right now. I think

I'll let that soak for a bit like a

saltwater bath for a mermaid

stuck in a city

that never sleeps or eats

anything but Korean

takeout that

smells like garlic and ginger,

which can only mean one thing.

Kimchi strengthens

your immune system

(and your soul)

just like Real Love does.

And so

All you need is Kimchi

and a few fat tracks

to sway to on a cold night

in November with the

full moon glowing

in a sunset that'll make you

grab at your chest

while listening to the master of love

beg some dame to stop breaking his heart.

Je me présenterai maintenant…

I am a young, partially educated, spiritually inclined woman. I am often questioning and wondering lots of traditional things; common woes, like what is love? (baby don't hurt me) or why are we as humans set up to feel so many similar things that feel wonderful and wretched. In mid 2008 I started writing. It really has been no more than 8 months that I've been attempting to write but in this time I've figured something out, I love writing. And so, I will write and share this with you. As a side note, I have been published on one website twice. Email me or comment with thoughts. I'd love to share and be shared all sorts of words and ideas.