suffer through all of his ridiculous, seductive nonsense.  every couple of days i get one of his lonely superior tongue lashings.  i am not smart or sexy or any of the other things you might be tempted to say.  there is no i  in team.  there is nothing cliche about this.  i am a text book case of green mush.  be careful to not flinch when the plaster behind you starts to crumble. all of my mothers words of wisdom, said so lovingly at the time, dance hauntingly through my bones, bouncing off bathroom walls.  there is something to be said for the sound beer bottles make when they hit the train tracks.


ďi love youĒ.  three little words.  sing to your love, whisper in her ear, scream at the top of your lungs.  three little words that are just that, three little words.  you hate me. there is no black or white about it, i am the cold bitch you used to call home. just three little words.   


it is last call, time for another shot.  what a lovely, cozy little friend.  the forget-me-nots lined up in a row.  the golden glow.  how organized the world has become and i canít seem to keep up. sometimes i wish i had a rocket ship. one with a good view; one painted a nice shade of lime green.

tick, tock. tick, tick, tock. 


black.  red.  white lights, horizontal lines over paved earth.  under here we start our descent, we travel the distance between time and space, backwards.  where is the hideous clock you hung on the wall, the mechanics of our time spent in the wake of your hate.  this summer is hotter than last, split the sky as we travel in perpendicular paths.  you are as beautiful as ever and i am whatever you want.


restart.  redirect.  the haunting hours behind my eyes, the split shift hypocrite, the simplicity of time spent in lonely splendor.  heavy remorse.  what is to become of your fragile universe.  i am not here for you; you were never there for me. 


the grayer side of sleeping through the day when all is but discontent with the thoughts and words that come from dreaming of you.  i sit up in a sweat, chills run down my neck.  there are not enough days in the week to kill you softly.  the loud ring of the phone becomes increasingly annoying at three in the morning, there is nothing to be said and yet you insist on crawling under my skin again and again.  paranoid confusion.  i am forever under your thumb.



i think i will wake up

and remember my dreams

the ones where you

are here

and i

want to scream

on the dark

deserted highway

through restless sleep


i wake up


every thing is

gone gray

today is

like any other day

i am young and

not  in love


i wonder if it is

worth the pain

to share my thoughts

at all

i know you are

just going to give me that

disapproving look again

where were you

yesterday when the

lights went



empty potential, left over and stepped over.  breakfast burns with intent, has there ever been another so careless of the little things.  i  never thought that your caress could harbor so much distaste.  the back yard flooded and overflowed into the neighbors drive.  the dogs dug up the flowers, shredded a cardboard box; the paper bits soaked into the grass.     


reflect on time spent gazing into tear filled eyes behind glass, behind locked doors, this room has become a sanctuary.  the vanity with which it was built.  itís true potential never realized until too late.  the cartographer stares at me with big sad eyes, she has found love.  i have discovered the secrets that lie between our sheets.


bump and grind and continue to divulge information that was once sacred; i no longer feel that intimate loyalty which kept me in miserable silence for so long.  the drama takes on a new light; exit stage left, you take center stage.  


i remember so carefully decorating the christmas tree, further ignoring the broken pieces of hearts swept under the couch.  you spent days smoothing over in silence.  our extravagance did not mend our dissonant past.  the truth is that we should have given up long ago, but held onto lost charms, childish dreams.  now all i have left are the gifts that came from our scraping at shadows, clinging to ghosts.


a tight rope, a slight hope.  is there reason to believe that we could ever be friends.  the puppet show is over, the room is dark and i am in my dressing room removing my makeup.  i had not realized the length, there are always strings attached; what will i tell my parents when they ask, what do they want to hear from their broken daughter.  these careful incisions strip away my last efforts.


out of my mind

confusion colors

the space iím

in trouble again

and you

who i love

do not seem to



what can i do

or say that will

take away

this tension

between us

it seems that

many of my dreams

have become


(however you spell it)

and inside

where i hide

a secret


that is becoming

more visible

with every word


behind cool delirious moments in bed, smeared blood smells red.  beauty is power, rusted meat whispers to the delicate goddess of shadow worship; beneath men who drool, smooth, bare breasted girl.  the frantic peach moons, the lustly chants, the pants and moans, always leave her staring; licking wounds, sweaty and despondent, precious in her love for the game; do not underestimate attempts to rectify assurances lost in play.


i have come to an end, as images disappear, in the sun, on the side of the road. stale air and boiled asphalt, flat and stagnant, except for the slow bubbles, popping, and the rising steam.  i shut my mind to everything except the black tar and the hot sun and the smell of the bubbles and stop.  this is only the beginning, and i forgot to count, how many days has it been this hot and how long have i been lying here; is this the end?  itís a sticky situation.


cover up the nakedness so as not to offend the more conservative members of the audience.  all of the tickets, bought and paid for with visa or master card, the patrons wait in a line; what comes next always gets them.  lights low, the gradual assent to the spot where one glove is slowly peeled off, then the next, hips sway, legs tremble; drop the sheet and reveal the pale burlesque.


crawling on hands and knees, counting on fingers and toes, cement floors.  cool to the touch, quick to jump, to move on.  bring back sweet romance in itís simplest form; where are the flowers you promised, and the kisses i desire.  cut to the chase, did you miss me.  have i  been gone that long or have we been sitting on the couch.  i have been dreaming again.  the beginning of an era, trembling has become uncontrollable in the lack of delight; the t.v. burns into the night.


relinquish your sense of self to the cold facts that you are nothing.  abandoned and replaced.  a life pattern hardly worth living if you ask me; itís been one of those nights where nothing fits, so i slip out into the moon light and walk the dog.  the streets have never been this quiet, the breeze lifts the scent of gray leaves and showers, but the water stings my eyes as i wash the blood from my left shoulder.  itís not the pain that bothers me but the calm.


my dear friend, you have been away too long and your sterile situation has become; my worst fear is that phone call in the night, the one from your mother.  i cannot look your picture in the eye, where is your head, iíve gotten carried away with the scissors again.


im not crying

just lying here

for a few more

minutes ago

it occurred to me

just lying here

tied up in sheets

torn up and bleeding

and half crazy

im not crying

just lying here


for the little

girl who slipped

endless minutes

ago between

two sheets

that were

just lying here

with you

but are now

tied up in knots

im not crying

just lying here



there is something wrong with little girls and bedroom eyes, tiny fingers pull at buttons and flys. somehow it always comes to this; on the bed with out pants.  with big boys and little girls, every one knows what happens next; life goes on in the shadows of sex.


the boy in my bed is taking over, waking over, sweating through red sheets and pissing on everything.  thatís how it seams to me in retrospect, i wish i could have seen so clearly at the time, his heart beat through his chest, he rolled over.  breathing anger and feeding the flame, the room is ablaze, my splintering bed, my splitting head.  light a match and watch it burn; the should haves will always get you in the end.


stutter, sputter and spit.  blackness suits you in your laughable plight, what was it that you wanted anyway.  my dreams have been delayed in flight, my life on hold for a purpose that you conceived.  but i let this happen, a lack of self worth became, and you thrived, climbed to the top, and shouted king of the mountain.  now i wonder what happened to your sovereignty when the lower rungs retired.


whatís your name, come here little one and see, how many birds have landed on the surface of the pond, how many of these wings beat for you.  do my eyes dispel mistrust, my arms go up defensively; i am comfortable here.  come and see how many leave.  cut a notch in your belt for me.


these pursed lips, these tender hips, there is  music in those sweet dreams.  count, the number of times i have fallen asleep to the rise and fall of your shallow breath.  disregard letters i wrote, i always thought that we would transcend, words on the page in the dim flash light.  under these covers, i hide my desires, swelling with wounded pride and bruised ankles; where is my iron will this time?


behind these walls

i create the images

and find

the answers

to questions


by birds

in their


behind these boys

i hide the woman

i was


to be

there are



in their


behind these bars

i cringe

and sing

and swallow

these birds


not in