Much More Beautiful

Wow.

Big Daddy was right. And SO quickly.

One thing that makes me really happy in life ( something I was reminded of today) is that I can say whatever the FUCK I want.

That’s right.

Right here? This is my place.

And I? I can say whatever I want.

That’s glorious! Big Daddy never asks me to censor myself. He is secure in who he is, naturally dominant. He knows that words are the VERY most important thing to me. And to restrict them would be death.

I would die inside.

And I want to shine.

I am much more beautiful when I shine.

Missing Thing

Kind of see
some
thing missing

some thing seen
some
missing thing

saw and un-
seen
missing thing

For He Whose I Am

The bus had been 19 hours and 12 minutes of wasted time.

“What were you thinking?”
“I don’t know. I obviously wasn’t thinking, judging by your reaction.”
“Go home.”
“Okay.”

She was now seated on the bench at the bus station, under the pretense of waiting for the next bus. In her hands, she held the pocket watch.

“That one.”
“This one? Miss, this one is an expensive watch.”
“I know.”
“Ok. Cash or charge?”
“Is it extra to engrave?”
“No, Miss. It’s complimentary. I will get you a sheet of paper.”

For he whose I am.

Counting her money again, she hesitated from buying a ticket. Why did she think he would come and stop her? Just because she came so far? Held back this long, her tears were heavy, overripe and finally fell like devastating bombs on the dry skin of her hands.

Feeling better after her cry, she stood up with purpose to buy her ticket and return home. She would write the whole thing off as an experience, an adventure, and fodder for her work. Maybe she would even get a book out of it…

“Violet!” Then, he was there.

Skin

someday to me someday’s skin someday’s taste
fantasy to you, fantasy’s skin, fantasy’s taste
forever to us
forever skin

A Certain Kindness

Each work morning lately I’ve taken to going to Au Bon Pain for coffee before work. For a week or two, I’ve noticed a “homeless” man. I don’t know if he literally is homeless, but he literally looks crazy. Wild, long untrimmed grey and white hair, including a beard. He is always in the same jeans, same shirt, same coat. So I deduce, being the veteran city girl I am, he is homeless. The talking and scowling at no one really hammers home the crazy.

A week ago, he noticed me. I think more accurately, he noticed me noticing him. Once he noticed me noticing him, he made it a point to notice me when I came in the coffee place. Again, the city girl in me notes this and notes also that it could be trouble. Because you see…

I give off a vibe. How does one describe this vibe? I don’t know, but this particular worm brings in a certain kind of fish. That’s what I’ve deduced so far. And didn’t this particular crazy come by at the right time, just in time to test my theory.

And test it he did.

Yesterday morning, the homeless man was standing two blocks down, staring at the train exit I depart from. I said nothing, but as I approached, eye contact became accidentally inevitable as he just stood there. Our eyes met briefly and I continued on to ABP. I thought to myself that it was weird he wasn’t in there with his usual coffee and orange juice that I’m pretty sure the manager gives him for free since the orange juice from ABP is like 5 bucks or something outrageous like that. But maybe I had missed his ABP time.

The next day, he is right at the tip of Valenti, where the painted brick sign for Canal St still haunts like a war time tattoo.

Fuck, I say to the morning air, knowing this time there will be words. I am incapable of not giving this person the respect of acknowledgement. He is standing in my path and we have seen each other before. He is already talking before I speak.

” Morning, morning…” He mumbles and his voice gets low and unintelligible.

“Good Morning.” I say simply and continue walking.

“Morning, Jesus is coming…”

The next day he is directly outside the coffee shop, telling the empty street; “Its been so many gathered…”

I can’t help but agree with him.

Posture

You bent over,
welcomed a secret
from our daughter

in just the right way–
arched eyebrow
slopped neck
cocked ear

I’m blessed

a success
if only in this–
I gave her more dad
than I had.

Yes Times

one frightened

                              girl I be

leave your mark

all over me

Short Skirt Syndrome

Girls

Who

Say cock

can count on

no one. remember…

Dramaturgical Skies Dawned

Deep pollution pounds, crows’ wings might,
fate’s the whipping boy, Giving up/crazy lies,
sounds are clouds Billows torn from the same
cloth as magenta and fire flies besides the horizon
line I gave you three tries. Steps away Learning
don’t extend the parastite propagandaist for any old
Tom Dick or Harry who crosses the hearth
Never trust a holy man

Church 14 by Eric Alder

Slate and Switch

Out from your
Triangle ray
Of make me okay
What a rose colored
Robe

you throw

A glam. And I’m the sham
The fake one,
the one
they see.
And I can tell who they are,
the ones that see.

You’ll come back to me
Split skin
And disease
Oh, the girl who puts out
Feelings and murmurings of faith

Incubate that special
Know that apart from the world
Its the owning

Disregard your lessons
Not need for slate and switch.
Walls around bells
Or beginnings.
Red brick beginnings
In corners of walls where innocence falls

Diffused light
You write
What you write
Then walk to the fountain and say
This swallow for punctured heart
This swallow for stone
This swallow for rapist knife
This swallow for none
And this swallow glided wee wee wee all the pills down

Further on discovery
What a shameful me
Blood early age
Thief who arranges for pitys desire
Ripe for the wiser
See this gold in me?
Fuck it out of me.
Too frank?
See I’m a toy
And all that honest
Integrity says so much
About clean boys and their attempts to save you

But deep down still
Slate and switch
Is still the itch