Being Greek

Being Greek means learning how to be clever

before you.

Learning about language and ancestry as a bedtime story.

Living in modern times

with an ancient soul,

in the Corinthian earth,

ghosts

talk

talk

talk

about me.

I make up my own rules

eat words while you sleep

awake before the birds

hunting poems out of my skull

bones

under my olive skin,

kissing my trinity girls.

#5minutewrite

for My soulsistas @jwprebich @lexmeehan

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At it again

I woke up early to collect data for poets

that know how to write but not how to read.

I woke up from dreaming about you,

to pointed fingers and mirrored poetry.

There is this effect of how the sun

reminds me of cool sand gliding through

my fingers on a black beach.

 

I lie down

and stare at the blue sky in awe. Nineteen

years old, dark tight skin, golden reflections

in my hair, I was a brunette then, pure olive

love. One foot is on a rock, flat belly

yellow striped bikini, puffy eyes behind

liquored nights. You’re an ellinitha

the Greek men would say and admire.

 

I write poetry for fun apparently, but you

do not know how it hurts. I submit to be

recognized and sell my soul some more,

but you do not know how the perfect amount

of ice, vodka and cranberry can knock out

the slips. I forgot how to type to remember

how to think. I hope you understand

all the secrets can only be spilled

over eyes on eyes

feet under the table

hands holding a glass of envy

it is the ways of the social media underworld,

the selected few

who have the perfect tattoo,

smile, angst, whiskey breath,

it is the epitome of everything

we are against.

Trust me, you are better off

not knowing and judging

from afar.

 

Thank you for taking the picture.

Anytime, he says and winks

in that flirting, I’m on vacation way

where nothing matters

but the temperature.

 

I am at it again,

the addiction rising.

The morning coffee stirring,

the need to find all the information

at my fingertips, except how

to get to that sky again. IMG_9615

 

Sixteen

There was a time in the 80’s when I was sixteen

and Michael was my everything

while I was his nothing. And even years

later every time I’d see him he pretended

i was nothing. from nothing to something.

from something to nothing. i call him an asshole

now. even my daughter knows his name. it’s not

a fucking secret how i loved him. you probably never

get over a love. and when i left or you left or whatever

happened because it’s all a blur, for the second or third

or fourth time and i ran into you on the street and you told

me to stop my car. you always wanted me back

every time I ran you ran faster. you married me

we had kids

i had red roses and an Alfred Sung gown.

Once I met a man, it was brief, maybe twenty minutes

or so, once he told me how my beauty

marked him. another time a man wrote

a book for me, he wanted my blood

as his pen. sucked me dry out of my silence.

created some Greek fucking muse of abuse

and left me with ashes on my cheeks.

It’s true that you never forget a love.

It’s true that you love your wife.

It’s morality to want it all and smoke in the hall.

i’ve lived it. you have no idea how I live.

I’m an artist and he supports my locked up frustrations.

my midnight madness

even if he isn’t one, he loves my crazy.

But you, you get all of me

in a brown package

delivered straight to your heart

and soul.

and you open me up gently.

just be sure

to not mix me up

with your other soul mates

and i will do the same.

my eyes and hair haven’t changed much

everyone says i look the same. IMG_7644

every love

is you.

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.

Money or your mind

Bust open the door to get to a pen and paper

coat thrown on the floor

heart long gone as we were

shut it all out; sounds, shouts, baby come here

I have a story to tell you

as he rubs me hard and grabs hold of my fear

lay it under the tires

drive directly through the reds

in that danger zone, stop at nothing

but my clothes off

as wives and husbands have a fling

a hash-tag love affair

eating supper and hiding in bathrooms

over and over kissing all the colors in the rainbow

to get to your pot of gold.

I’m buying karma beads

gifts to my bitchy self

turquoise stones and empty pink champagne bottles

you stand back and watch me fall

pull my hair back for my drunken New Year’s Eve nightly crawl

drinking shots with no hands, knees on the floor

I could put on quite a show

dancing Greek like a pro.

Belly dancing whore, shaking hips

to your wet lips,

can you forget me?

Looks like you already have, I see.

You’re so quick,

another pretty face to eat you alive

with your southern charm

while your thousand dollar suits keep you away

from my kind of harm.
Idiotic days with titles

to remind me of how to love

or write

but I need no such prompts

pick up a pen and fight

strip to Marvin Gaye

past midnight.

You know I mean what I say

I’m stubborn that way

but the way you caress my hair

stretch out your touch out of nowhere

rub my leg with a drink in one hand.

Did you forget your money or your mind?

leave it all behind

to be free for a while

entranced by your poker smile.

I’m not like that

face it, I’m a grown up brat

writing stories

to breathe down the street

my arm in yours

watching old black and white movies

repeating lines

you’ve told me

without even realizing

how the signs were everywhere that day,

and I saw how you looked at me

when I crossed my legs.

I’ve been writing in my notebook, you see

where there are no eyes

upon bitchy me.

Stuck between

The best part of the day

is the love you send

like flowers on a grave.

The dead know that none of this matters

as much as we hope it would. The dead

know how you can fault on your knees.

Better to not know yourself. Cry all

day under your glare. Escape in the

middle of the night and hunger for the

lustful cravings among

the banks of your shore.

I will kill your beauty, watch it

pass me by like a dead freight train.

I will add Greek olives to it as a gesture

of my hate.

Ugly me

has no will to look anyone in the eyes.

Beautiful me

will spread her legs

for you to go deep

shakes your knees

at my touchdown.

The theme escapes me daily

the words all gone again, starting

over on a new screen

to begin in another lifetime.

Full Bloom

Crumpled up two pages

a rarity in my hands

most times I do not come up for air

as long as it takes a song

to start and end

as long as I make this pen bend

to my right and wrong.

I can detox my body

add ginger to my green tea

bring back my mind

with Rumi, silence and obscure poets I find.

I can revive my soul

writing until my notebooks are full

and the cardboard back cover will do

any blank space filled through and through

page after page of nonsense, raging like a bull

(you can come in and out of my room

I won’t see you, I’m in full bloom)

creating an inner world

with hotel rooms on fire

sex acts, food, conversation, attire

vivid characters’ desire

as she spreads her legs

feeds her need

with his vibrant seed.

I know the joke’s on me

of how could she write

such pornography?

Erotica from the Greek eros, I recount

and my real name

my real picture

forget it, it’s a bloody game

deconstruct me

the nature of literature

serendipity

carpe diem

in vino veritas

deux ex machina

professors’ voices reminding me

of tragedies, endings, motivations

mere words

to stop the critics, the academia, the vultures

the turds

you know who you are

and you might think you’re a star

but no one here gets out alive

and if you haven’t heard Jim say

it then get back to the past

listen without judging

take that fucking dive. 

Tell him a tale

wipe a tear

off I sail

do not leave any tracks

hard to tell the lies from the facts.

All I know is that I’m in full bloom.