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

 

This is me


   And this is the full poem for those who asked. It was my first attempt at ever recording my voice with one hand…no edits no retakes.just a glimpse. Hope you enjoy.
Chrissy

My New York Way

Everything sounds divine

with a hint of you and some red wine

had to Google a few places

to get to the lines on your faces

the Virgo in me is awake

can’t sleep in a cold lake

next time around in another lifetime

you’ll meet me at the drop of a dime

at Strand in the poetry sextion

drinking doubles at the W Hotel

a sexual addiction

fuck the shows and the shops

water and cheesecake drops

don’t need WiFi

for my way  into the deep entry of my silent sigh

for the true artiste in moi

wants a glimpse of hotel bars

not merely sheets

drinks and sliding beats

we won’t come up for air

you better just sit there and stare

at my hokey pokey naked dance

you’re sure to be in a sick trance

I think there is more at the museum

but I lost my way at the lobby

lost my wallet and my mind

still I never lose sight of your kind

and rough verse

your silent twisted curse

it’s a gift I know

sometimes I’d rather not put on this show

but the need overrides the logic

and the rush of words so tragic

hitting the ground

in a lovers’ exhaustion

another round

of love with no caution.

Changing checking time

to another poetic rhyme

so we could capture the sunset

and let go of the butterfly net.

864

fate

you said to leave it to fate
don’t make a date
the time “who cares”
the meeting
well, who dares.
Ain’t it funny how
time knocks us down now
how New York
was a daunting force
to carry me like a running horse
to your steps
in the cab in Brooklyn
we giggled and cried and this losing win
you get in my head
for a second
you get in my bed
and I would reckon
God would be hated
we would be jaded.
Even Aphrodite agrees
and Apollo he decrees
that lovers like us
make great statues
cupid & psyche
writing the blues.
I did dance at The W
with a good-looking crew
smoking on the street
I thought I saw you
but my heart didn’t skip a beat
in Times Square
and fuck I thought
“Life is not fair.”
And another week rolls by
and more tears I will surely cry
for you know you’ll always be the one
I don’t play dumb.
Third time is never a charm
it’s bullshit, causing more harm
better to go see Andy Warhol alone
sit on the steps you call home
and feel your presence
in your absence.