The Fire of my Storm

Inside my chest

is a raging child

she buckles up her seat belt

and waits for the accident

it is coming

it always does.
I remember her at six

how the piano freed her soul

and anger burned her wings

in burial grounds

where her mother met her fate.

This storm inside her at sixteen

tore apart all her friendships

these addictions to people

taught her about toxicity.

Now at thirty-four

she sleeps alone

and waits for the shores

of her youth to be

taken by the roads she missed.

She is a calm wave

waiting for her destiny

and lightening.

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Le Club

“the difference between Art and Life is that Art is more bearable” – Charles Bukowski

 

I want to keep all the seconds

minutes, hours to myself.

I want to revel

in the magic

of two glistening bodies.

I made a list of things

and created poetry

from chandeliers

and hotel lobbies.

Pinot noir and club sandwiches

with no tomatoes

who would believe

the poem?

My notes of you?

skin and sin, you said,

two peas in an ipod, I said.

I’m not afraid to eat

or to love your body.

I can caress too

I can feel your insides out

and your pain.

I could be a Real person

no frills

orchids on my skin.

Set alarm to sundown

and kiss some of your freckles

hello and goodbye.

Mohawk on your head

cause you’re the warrior

I’m too busy taking pictures

of chandeliers

being cozy in your arms

in my jeans.

I wonder if all the having

covered all the wanting.

I wonder what you were thinking

when I said

what was on my mind.

I am who I am.

I say the worst and the best

all in the same line.

You probably liked me still

do with me what you will

make my body sore

I will never complain.

Turn me anyway you desire

I like what clearly

makes you

want me like a teenager.

But I know how to lose people

by not knowing how to hold

on to them.

I’m always saying the wrong things

or staring at your lips

I’m banging my head

my heart

my body

my soul

my mind

up against your squeezed up chest

I can’t breathe

but I like it

being under you.

Sometimes you follow your heart

destroy your logic

in the walk

to the elevator.

I water my soul

with your kisses.

I’m fine.

Don’t know how to behave.

So excuse me

for this poem

that I’ve been meaning

to not write.

I always feel it’s

never good enough

for you.

 

Chasing Wanderlust

The most important part of poetry

is how it makes you travel through time

and place. I have my spacesuit on ready

to touch stars. meet me at the ocean.

you’re so ridiculous, did you see i did the dishes for  you

love me now

fill up my glass

oh, how i love you now

the way you come through the door

and kiss space with two grand steps.

telling me how my beauty is so deep

even you have to dig

and that’s why you love me

because every day i give you the shovel.

living and knowing you has been the best part

of my life

how could i have done anything without you?

this is my poetry

how quotes mean nothing

until i whisper them in your ear.

remember when we went to Puerto Plata

and i wore those fuck me boots

and short shorts? remember the party

in the basement with strangers

everyone grabbed our asses

and we laughed and touched each other

in the back seat of the cab?

we keep on chasing wanderlust

in the front seat of sanity

with our seat belts off.

speaking foreign languages spreading love

through sand castles,

it’s the 70’s

and my foot went right into the Tupperware

when the car crashed and our necks snapped.

 

you know the grammar rules

now try to apply them

to your life.

 

 

Freedom

I wrote it on the beach

while staring at the ocean

but forgot to send it

deleted it somehow

and poetry faded into

the sand under my feet.

I hear what you say

but I’m nodding at the sky

it’s talking to me

so be silent.

listen. i told you to

stare and you did,

listening to the wind

and how the earth moved

with the clouds.

You breathe deeply.

she was the one

who never got

away from your thoughts

and she was the one

that reminded you

of me. no spells

required. it was

word play. tricks

that poets perform

on cue. i trust no one

but my lover

who knows every

mole on my skin.

every beach is different

yet the same,

and every man is you

and every woman

is me.

That freedom of

saying you’re mine

or I’m yours

or other lovely phrases

that confuse the horizon

are Purolator express

packages of signed poems

I sent to Pakistan, London,

Lebanon, and other exotic

places that poets meet.

Remember how we ruled

the scene with teased hair

and duMaurier cigs

no line ups, no hash tags,

no texts, no pictures?

You just wanted to

get next to me.

That was all

that mattered.

Now everything matters.

My shoes, my hair,

my fake promises.

Yet you see nothing

but what you

have always seen

and that is one

of the myriad ways

that I love you

in every song.

Love or Lust

first it’s my eyes

then it’s your heart

pounding. your kiss

lights my soul. my

love for you empties

the darkness. what’s

left of us? you ask.

the lust. the desire.

your arms around me,

drowning my river

turning me slowly

into all you crave.

love and lust me.

my body and soul

and mind

are waiting.

as are my legs

ready to wrap them

around your waist.

June second

the lights are red, but i want to go up

into the sky. drive right through

the pink and purple all night long.

this is my porn. you text me

your naughty, i’ll dream

in the fucking clouds. it’s june

second, two thousand and fifteen,

remember the 80’s? i relive them.

another full moon? do you

really care all that much? stop

howling. i feel it in every cell.

you’re fucked up.

I think my imagination

is so wild

even you

would run away.

but, you stay, you

make me believe

that the sunset

was a masterpiece

and the darkness

its palette.

the moon controls us

like love, we’re

helpless

to its pulling effect.

catch me tonight at

nine pm…its’ my son’s

award ceremony,

but i’ll still be falling

from the sky.

don’t forget to look up

and extend your arms,

even if you don’t see me.

Piling mistakes like old poems

you should not have let

me in. i will eat you

alive. and

you will

want more.

while i run

in the opposite direction.

dive into all the

oceans. list of highways.

skip crossroads. until

i stop in front

of the moon. and

close all the roads

that lead to you.

you should have known

it would come to this.

i can’t wake up at

three a.m in the rain,

wind and confusion. it

could be insatiable. lust

and greed. forget the money.

it doesn’t exist between the

metaphors. jewelry and crosses

under the mats with the keys,

sex is the drive, desire

and A+ awards

on poetic shit means

nothing here. touch

and unwritten poems

can burn. find the words

i need to hear and

fuck the rest.

The Sea

I’m just a tad more romantic

hopeless (to be exact)

the two combined

leave vomit on my shimmery and shine

same pants you rubbed

same sex you craved

and then the boxing bell rang loud

while we were in the bliss of all that fun

time to pack the bags

I have my train ticket

do you have the time?

I have my thongs with all the right words

do you have a rhyme?

I have my invites to the latest parties

do you want bits and pieces of my crime?

I confess to nothing

I embrace my sins

count me out

of the nails and pins

on the sleeves of your love

count me in

to the rhythm and blues of your heart

that’s all I wanted from the very start.

You, me, in all that denial

I sleep nude after I wake up

feel the sheets on my skin

as I press redial;

you hate when I call you

say the truth

stick me and you across in that booth

and your touching the letters

on my skin.

I dream in so much color

and waves of the ocean

the subtle drowning in me

wakes me up

I held my breath

from the bottom of the sea.

You might think I am a great storyteller

but I do not/cannot sit for four hours

in misery

reviewing colors and fabrics

with no glasses.

Just lay me down

I might float

or not.

hip and cool

In the darkness of the day I can feel his arms around me

as far as he is

he can duck and press the gas medal

quickly, urgently, not even a riot

could stop him from ringing my bell;

he can come up close to me

and kiss me with his fluent tongue,

charming words,

hot love escaping his pores

as he races to see what the fuck

I am up to today

with my theory of the day mood swings

poetry readings in crumpled sheets

playlists of old tracks of my heart

that still make me pounce

on the front line of his soul.

Every city sinks at one time or another

every colour turns blue

shades of grey

are just a fantasy

memories float on the river

of my small city

(who the hell collects postcards besides me

who the hell cares for seashells

in the middle of winter).

One hundred pages left in my galley

but I have to check on my sanity

from time to time

escape the characters in my head

that live and breathe

without my knowledge

never wanting their story to end.

It is never enough to love for eternity

not even  possible

to have one love

all a mere rock on the bottom of the ocean

no one can see.

Ready for him

when he is

determination

should be written on his sleeve.

The only lovers left are the poets

creating a secret world

among the appearances

of the living

who often

seem dead. I am so alive.

Come from your frustration

and enter my highway

park

drive

and stay a while.

Write another poem.