Footsteps yet taken

I suppose when you think about someone’s life

and its variables

you can make an equation

as to its sum of all matters.

I am not a pianist, or a mathematician,

I do not even claim to be a writer. I feel

inadequate at the most. When I think my

worst work is my best, I still

close my eyes. I listen to

instrumental music to block

out all lyrics, all of his poems

that keep me grounded. He says

I am everything and nothing

in the same sentence.  I can

turn to dust on all the footsteps

yet taken. Turn around from the

walk on the beach

and enter the snowstorm of the

year. Play you a song you will

never forget. Write you a poem

you will read over again.

Not from a book, or a blog,

but from my heart.

The ones that make you

think more than you ever

wanted to. The poem that

blends into the next.

The one that refers to the

same person you never

forget.

All these paths

lead me to the same

entrance.

Unleash the Soul in me

In the morning you were sleeping in the dark

you know that type of morning dark shade

that is so opposite from night,

and all my reasons to wake you

left me with cold feet on the hardwood floor.

I bought time once

and it left me broke.

Ancient people talk to me about how

we held hands and made choices

in the new land. A black and white shot

of all the dead people sitting on a quilt

up in the Greek village where

I saw the sky for the first time.

If my soul was on a leash

it would be easy to control

but I never worked out my life

like musical notes.

It would be ideal to see how

the last act plays

but the fortune teller told me

I would live long,

sign my name

over and over again

until I was tired of Christina

and change it to Chrissy

or Krissy with a K

or Chris, or Tina or Christine

and all the ways everyone

changes the spelling of my name,

but

it starts with an X

and not many people know the truth

of how I unleash

the soul in me

from time to time to breathe

and take deep sighs

then tie it back up

to write a book

or drink one bottle of Jack

in three hours.

Beware of a writer’s reach

and length of a book or poem

it means that nothing ever ends

and it all starts over

until all the smokes

and all the bottles are emptied out.

 

Surrender

The line up for free coffee
is growing daily up until
they too
take away the free love.
Not something I am unaccustomed to
all I crave is
the surrender to your clever ways
play me anyway
I’m game
raising flags at red lights
stopping my heart from beating
to feel yours
hiding away under the life machines
holding on to technology
like doctors
who are poets in their own way
like us
saving lives
with words.
It seems redundant to write
how you
have the words
I want whispered in my ear
you have the hands
caressing my skin
and all the other ordinary words
poetry stems from
but ’tis true. Yes.
Shakespeare is in love again.

I found these words scattered
around from six in the morning
where my notebook lay empty.
I raise my love to you
and bore you to death
with my obsessions
and that is how easily
you can forget me.
You are the air
I am of the earth.
(And this is another reason
I will surrender
for both
need each other
more than they know.
It could be science.
It could be love
it could be none of the above.)

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.

I need it more

In the midst of the journey
to your own soul
you forgot about the birds
in the middle of winter.
Tell me to wake up
when I don’t see the ugliness
in others
it’s your major fucking flaw
he says
yet this is what I love the most
about you.
All the things
I’ve wanted to hear
you tell me now
as I babysit the old
never the right time to love me
you break me apart
year after year
with alliterations and similes
to soothe my aches.
Get out of bed and love me
he continues his monologue
I whisper
come here and love me
I need it more
but he can’t hear me.

Used to this

Must I tell you more?
Or less?
Or shake the day off
with my bare shoulder.
Stuck between dreams
reading about your eyes
as I walk into my life
and walk right back out.
Throw adjectives
like knives
so used to my nine lives
and so glad you need me not
crystal clear as the ocean.
Tell me how
you are wanted
and blessed
I will be at the graveyard
in my unrest.
Your soul blows mine away
in its fading light
and I wait for you
to break my heart
so lovingly.
I hate all these emotions
pulling me toward you
yet I embrace them
as I would you.
You take me in
and sweetly take me out
I lay on the ground
defeated
arms wide.
Since you never asked, I’m not doing fine at all.
My feelings never change
I’ve always felt different
apart
You make me feel
beautiful
when I stare at nothing
but your face
I loved what we shared
and I
well I am just a girl
so many like me
ready for you.
It is rare to love like this
and I am grateful
for every kiss.

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.

My translator

Everyone struggles with the other side of the grass

is it green

is it the future

of the deep driven past

repeat, shuffle, play

life, songs

music every fucking day.

Off to another town

to play the role of how we go up

and fall hard down

onto the bed with you

in my high heels shoes

and nothing else.

You do not have to love me at all

as much as I use it

I don’t.

So many may say it better than me

so many may be prettier

or smarter

or uglier

or closer

and yet here we are

in the same room

no one else can see us

my eyes on yours

and yours on mine

who cares about the wallet

or the cars we drive

or the typing in my head.

Let go the pain

and let me keep on loving your insane

heart

I knew it from the start

to run

but you kept on pulling my hand

painting the road yellow

fanning my stress

massaging my lower back

digging deep inside me with your

magic

I still run fast

I need to

I’m made that way

like a statue coming alive

so cold

so bloody hot.

It’s merely rings on my fingers

gifts from the past

nights made of hot lust

wedding night drunks

it’s all or nothing

nothing or all

it’s my heart

my mind

my soul

that confide

to each other

my keyboard the translator.

A poem brewing

Find me resting

contemplating

how your light

can easily change

my dark mood

and just like that

the drive you’re on

becomes mine

with a snap of your fingers

your sunlight

sees mine.

Are you blinded by the light or the dark?

Philosophers understand

my words

follow me to cafe shops

and try to storm my mind

with quotes.

Finding anything to write on

I must explore

how

I feel your pressed lips

against my skin

change from day to day

finding less reasons

to love you

as the chill

of your soul

freezes mine.

Letting the cards fall

on my dining room table

allowing the money to buy me less

moments with you.

I can jump into a moving car

or crash into a yearning

solely for you

with your black shirt

and cool jeans

perfect look to match

the beauty I see inside.

It’s hard to hide from me

as much as it is

for me to hide

from you.

Literally impossible

and all my dark

becomes your light

and all my drives

lead to your door.

Nothing stops the traffic

like you can.

No images more lasting

than those I want

with you.

I want out.

I want in

with you.

Have you had enough of my words

my ups and downs

my laying in bed

watching Breaking Bad

my dishes piled high

have you had enough

of my writing spells

my edits

my red hair?

At every turn

there’s a poem

brewing,

pour the fucking coffee

we must talk.

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Twelve steps to waiting

1.

Waiting

for handwritten notes

to be gently placed

into the palm

of my tiny hand.

2.

Waiting

for your poems

like a drug addict

in the depths

of the need.

3.

Waiting

for your inspiration

to take full control

of my thoughts

and leave behind

my car

in an abandoned parking lot

to find your crumbs.

4.

Waiting

for nothing to happen

but Silence

as my mind

reads yours

through distance and time

along

graveled 1920’s train tracks.

5.

Waiting

to be divided

by a doorway

stepped on clothes

as you fling

my body across

your shoulder

and spank my naked ass.

6.

Waiting

for the breakdown

to pass

but you must know

how I can breathe

freely

underwater

like a true mermaid.

7.

Waiting

to create

sensual art

with your fingers

as brushstrokes

and my body

your blank canvas.

8.

Waiting

to be undressed

slowly

and

thoughtfully

by your picture

smooth hands

clasping the wheel.

9.

Waiting

on years

and decades

for something

so romantic

candles and ghosts

will feel.

10.

Waiting

for old poetry lines

and lovers

to burn

as others can’t

compare

to the desire

in our lair.

11.

Waiting

for the cold snap

to pass

and the heat

from within

to bring you closer

to my wanting love.

12.

Waiting

is my secret

in peace

as a comfort

to my thousand year old soul

that knows yours so well.