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when little babies lay down little heads...
there are dreams of ice cream.
and never ever of monsters.
and sometimes they dream of monsters.
and on those nights they cry.
they pee in their beds and hug close their heads
while kittens get stuck in the blinds.

all these thoughts are mine.
they cannot hide the babies.
everyone must know the mess you've made.
and either way you show yourself through their skin.
and one day you'll show it through your own skin.

they've never grown
more than a few feet higher than a ruler.
and i saw one just the other day eating candy with sticky fingers
trying to pull kittens from the blinds.
digging through garbage she cries out.
lamenting the loss of the other kitten she believed to be hiding in the basement.

lay down your head sweet babies and dream ice cream and kittens.
dream of monsters no more.

missiles are anti-social

For obvious reasons, i have come to the conclusion that missiles are anti-social.
They will never stop on the street to "catch up" with you.
You won't find them at back to school night, lingering by the refreshment table looking for someone to chat with.
And you know very well that if you happen to be checking your mailbox at the same time, missiles will not wave and say hello.
They won't even give you "the nod".
You will invite them to your barbecues in an attempt to bring them into the circle of friends that you call your neighbors...they will not RSVP.
But what you need to understand is this.
As much as you will never understand why missiles do not want to be your friend, know that you do not want them as a friend.
If they stop you on the street,perhaps with carriage in tow, know it will only be to comment on how ugly your child is.
If they bump into you at the food store, know they will only address you passively by commenting on the close relation of your waist size and shopping cart contents.
If they happen to be in front of you in line at the post office, know they will make every attempt to prolong their transaction by asking about the limited edition stamps.
Know that you will have many friends in your life.
Know that they will show interest in your existence.
Know that that you can't make friends with everyone.
Know that you don't want to make friends with everyone.
Know that missiles will suck you dry.
Accept that missiles are anti-social.

up the street...

i have found a new home.
i cannot say how long i will stay.
my nails are brittle again from too much dish washing.
my fingers regain their beloved black ink freckles.
mocha polka dots create constellations on my forearms.
my feet sit sore in milk soaked shoes...
but i smile and chat and the banter drives me wild with delight.
this is the true outlet for my random conversations.
this is the place where i understand the workings of it all.
it is familiar and comforting.
perhaps one day i will be far away and disconnected from it all.
but for now, i have found a new home.
and my teeth chatter with the love of a new family.

i have been gone

working.
cutting...material.
poking...myself
with scissors and needle.
the cats have clawed my hands raw
while i handled the wiggling measuring tape.
blood and band aids.
the bobbin was my nemesis.
all of me has been put into this damn quilt.
you cannot laugh at my crooked hems.
if i ever see a scrap of rust orange velvet or
red and yellow tweed i will gouge my eyes out and sigh.
i hope that your quilt is well received.
i hope that your blanket keeps you warm.
it has taken away all my time to scribble down pointless observations.
it has made me slump in defeat at least twice a day for the past three weeks.
i complain, but really, i hope it makes you smile.

Weaving threats of sound

i am shortened breath.
i am tense shoulders.
and you are as far away as thunder in the desert.
i cup my hands over my ears to make sure that nothing is heard.
i press my long lashed eyes against the realities.
and all of the fury and angst that is present...
...this is a gift to you.
you on the other side of the world.
you writhing while you are writing and weaving these sounds.
i am here-putting out the energies that fuel your work.
know that we are held together in the darkest of corners,
in the tightest of nooks.

Bedtime story for her

So...there was a zoo and there was a man. and the man was soooo tall.
man, he was tall man. his legs went up so high that his belt was the
clouds and his bald spot was a black hole in the fifth dimension of the
milky way. in the zoo there were monkeys. they knew that this man had
donuts in his pockets. they wanted to build a ladder out of banana
peels to get into the pocket of the man, but they had to wait until
winter so that the banana peels would be frozen and sturdy. when they
finally get into pocket-they retrieve all of the donuts!!! now, you
may think, "why these monkeys want donuts? they eat bananas." but
these are not for the monkeys. they are for the security guard. see,
he is like a cop and will be lured to monkey cage with donuts. when
he eats the donuts his fat stomach turn inside out and look like
great pop up book of a carnival. it is in this carnival that the
monkeys lost the key to their roller skates. they put on these roller
skates many moons ago and went to this carnival and there,through much
merriment, they misplaced the key. but the sad thing of it is that because
these roller skates are so heavy on their feet, it keeps them from
being able to swing from their tails as monkeys often do. so they have
lived with this burden, until the man, whose fourth shirt button is
the corona of the sun, came to the zoo. and you know what the moral
of the story is?..... IF YOU KEEP DONUT IN YOUR POCKET, YOU CAN TURN
FAT MAN INSIDE OUT LIKE POP-UP BOOK!!!!

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I washed in a tub when i was little.
My father did as well.
My tub was metal...
...his was made of wood.
I've never been fond of splinters.

Alphabet Adoration

Give praise to the mighty alphabet.
L, M, N, and Oh-the way we form these sentences.
Let us give thanks.
Thanks to the letters.
Thanks to the word.

An island off the coast of heaven pt.4

Cracked tooth discount lentils
Cut leg drunken glass
Accordion, book lined cove for two- a hop, skip, and a jump away from home.
Hank Williams…
Joanna Newsom…
Count and rank the beauty marks on my face one more time

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Cherubic, white ghetto love, domino governess
Pork free
Avenger of innocent black men

Dampened, smiley hiking boot, chatty rambler
So scattered
Avenger of dining car rejects

Shaved, toothless mad hatter, conspiracy theorist
Old soul
Avenger of a country now turned kingdom

Whispering, Uni-brow marshmallow selector, giggle spreader
Baby girl
Avenger of heavy eyelids

Smoky, friendly townie talkies, station waiters
Familiar couple
Avengers of the right to ignorance

suburban dawn

this is the time when we feel most vulnerable.
will that sun come up again and make us fall into that lull of hurt?
the lawns are breathing and scurrying across our feet.
the crinkle of air conditioners makes me turn left and right and over in my grave.
you seem less phased on this mid-morning excursion home.
use your emotional strength...pull us from this living tomb in which we are embraced by the ghosts of years passed, by ghosts that cannot leave.
i never want to know the feeling of challenges as i roll my last cigarette of the night in attempts to quiet myself.
it takes this act to keep from reacting to prerecorded comments.
i want to know the feeling of letting go and feeling alright about something that is unknown.
i'm sure that there is life beyond these borders.
somewhere that has a less penetrating daybreak...
somewhere that we have no history.

Don't quit your day job

Vampire cannibal dwarves-you are magical love creatures.
Deliciously chasing the flesh of the fat...
Drinking the blood of the sugar fanatics...
Thick, rich, cold full glasses of tasty delight.
How do you stay composed?
This is true elation!!
Perhaps...
...the thrill is gone.

for you, dear boy

Highly functioning,
life is now dull.
Emotional crisis,
starved for the genuine.
There are no words but
something is hiding.
Your thoughts are expanding but
you are obsessive.
Your strengths are your greatest weaknesses.
Capacity, potential, paradox...
Every facet of existence is
at war.

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I cannot exist and examine growth.
One eats the other and I cant digest both.
No room in my stomach, even less in the head
I’m meant to extract words-put them on paper with lead.
I can’t say you haven’t heard them before,
So perhaps you will find that my mind is a bore.
You say you’re all beautiful with capacity churning,
I have small attempts; still feel like I’m learning.
Perhaps your art’s better, profound and perfect
Mine is just me, imperfect-no regret.
It’s all meant for fun, no need to judge or compare…
There are no classics here, of this I’m aware.
But stop by and look, like when a car overturns
While I display all of my paper-thin thought patterns.
And all of you critics can go sit alone …
You’re no better than me for what you’ve shown.

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I think of you often when I bathe.
It starts when I lather behind my ears.
I laugh as I work my way down.
It ends when I finish off my belly button.
A bar of soap is better than any photo or phone call.

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You are a man with priorities.
You are a tree with leaves.
You make me smile.

pajarito

She lays down softly a thing to call home.
From way back home hers is a restless wing.
A bird upon inflated love with heavy head…
Outweighs the tired feet of one who has no dance.

What she wants from you is nothing more.
And that is to say she wants nothing more…
Than what a child wants from a mother
Or a flower wants from the soil.

This thing laid so softly is wrapped up tight
The patterns are familiar and connected to the body.
There is support found in lifeless, tattered cloth.
She will mend it tomorrow.

Will you offer needle?
Will you offer thread?
Will you offer solace for that heavy head?
Will you offer music for those tired feet?
Will you offer air onto which her wings can beat?

the ferris solution

From the top of my delight, I fear this ride.
I start at the line- ticket in hand, nostrils full of salt.
Waiting for the cart now…I hope I get the green one
to contrast against the red of the sea.
That will look nice.
I ran to the ocean to hide.
I know that most don't want me.
These carnival folk know how to hide a story…
Hide a face…
Hide a body…
Screaming with a terror that digs deep into the soul,
there is nothing to be done.
The body shakes inside.
Looking for a way out when you know that you are trapped.
Feeling so close to freedom, so high up.
This is my swan song, warbling as I crash to the ground below.
You may drag my remains to the haunted house.

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When you ask me to sleep over, I always hope.
And when you sip your wine and pour me more, I always hope.
And when you sit next to me on the bed, I always hope.
I know that it has happened once before…perhaps once more?
We had fun that night…

The only poem I will ever write about clowns

I was never fond of clowns.
Hiding behind Their faces all a mess.
I cant take writing about them.
It means I have to think about them.

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I wonder where you have been hiding.
I have longed with a heavy heart to hear a story fall from your mouth.
You cannot help but acknowledge that too much time has passed.
Let our eyelids grow heavy with the lamentation of days gone by, dear friend.
Now is the time of rebirth, my love...but the days move slowly and they grow dark.
I will wait for you on the jersey border.

early departure

Cold air pressed against hard laughter…
They could still see some candlelight from the cottage window.
A bit of sweat on the brow, she turns and takes one more sip
of her witches brew.
Pass it along.
Fall to the concrete.
Is the earth softer or her head harder?
Filled with cider and spiced rum…no one is aware of the impending doom.

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There are the things they told you to explore
Caverns
Open fields
And Forests
Then there are the things they told you to have an exchange with.
The things they meant for you to explore
Skin cell laced carpets and tiled bathroom floors exempt of cleanliness via nail clippings.
Little white half moons waxing and waning
Creating a design only to be completed by cigarette ash stardust
Take the fingers and examine the hair-logged depths of the bathtub drain.
A collection of voodoo spell fodder to last a lifetime
If you believed in such magic you could be a rich woman spelunking in Hawaii.

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I think that people who go to church in tents are funny.
They dance like the chicken they decapitated for dinner the night before.
They spread the word of the Lord like jam on a homemade biscuit.
Slam the tambourine and sing.
They put on their best dungarees and hand me down floral dresses.
He wants to hear their stories. He wants to hear their troubles.
He will make them happy. He will make them feel better about the day and the night.
He will fry their chicken.
He will jar their preserves.