You told me I’m your everything, but I didn’t know I was another illusion~

for the takes you make that leave you lost in confusion, the solid steps that look like stages to you~

the final words that leave you satiated in truth.

It’s not my business what you say to me

you say I’m your everything and I’m just what you need,

but you wish it were true but the truth ain’t what it seem,

you like to get lost in me but you don’t wish it were me

it’s just the motion taking you over,

singing your song and justifying sleep,

don’t come back to me in the morning

because I’m a woman with a full and open heart

a woman with breaking weighing on the dawn.

Stay with him tonight, stay with him ’til the dawn.

It’s not my business anymore,

ain’t my business no more.


And In Love

It’s a personal experience, because baby you hardly know, how much I want to see you and how badly I want to let you go.

It’s only me here, waiting for you, believing in the embellishments of a soul wanting, to love and be wanted .

Well, more drunk I’ll get waiting for the proclamation of a love that lasts forever, the kind to hold hands with in those lapses between the noise~

we wait all of our lives for the spaces that show us where we can exist-the black hole at the center of our galaxy around which we exist.

We are mission control avoiding the gravitational pull around which a swirl exists~ to emit, a constant existence- or a reason to exist.

There is a hole surrounding which no light can persist~ a constant mortal reminder of possible inheritance…

You could be this…or this….

Yet I could not know because my relationship is with Love~ not you, silly boy.

As a woman, we are compelled to look for love and to form it wherever it seems to take hold, like a virus very focused in on the perfect environment.

And I can love myself, with a finger and intention, a woman in possession, of a secret you wish you could get to, and your dick is promised and successful in context, but here I wish you well, for this is the soundtrack to my life and you aren’t here to provide a beat.



Your Sock

I am a romantic mess, waking up with only

one of your socks on the floor by the zillion

pieces of single clothes on the single floor

of a bedroom a single girl sleeps in.

Your sock on the floor reminds me of the time

I stole the sock from your drawer while you sang

in the shower, the love we kindled the

night before.

I am a romantic mess, because as I dress, nothing

matters but the sock on the floor. I make a mess

of the mess already there, trying to look for

the missing of the pair, trying to see past

the omen of fear that only one of us can

be here.

The socks with you were a pair, both of us,

happy and living in the post-coital bliss. The sock

I have here is but one, the other amiss. Where

could it have gone? I searched everywhere,

it’s as if it just disappeared. The magic cannot

be denied, I’m trying not to die inside, but my heart is


What about the time when you hate me, when the sock

will be a horrible reminder of the wonderful memory? Or

the time when you leave and I’m left with the responsibility,

the evidence~ a sock in solitary? Or what about years from now,

when I throw the sock out, reminiscing about that time…that time…

You are my friend, I hope forever until the end.

I hope I can find the sock before it’s too late, I can’t stand this heartache.



If you’re sad or mad, go to Tucson.

If you’re fighting with yourself to accept your dream, go to Tucson.

If you’re hungry and impatient and you feel the tide

constantly changing,

your tires are spinning,

there’s no sense in winning,

but you know.

You know that you’re growing,

fertile you arrived and

pregnant you go.

Go to Tucson if you think

no one understands.

No one’s given you a chance,

but you were born to be made,

and Tucson is the shade,

the bassinet, the picnic and

the ants that destroy it.

Don’t disrespect

for she’s spacious and vast.

The Sonoran desert can kick

your ass. She’s

the place of ‘mad strife’,

The Seeker’s delight.

Go to Tucson if you’re willing to bleed

for your soul to be born,

The Phoenix rise from the ash.


To Stand Amongst You

I am dying to be seen,

skin flakes and clusters in the breeze,

like the first rainfall dripping on the cracked

lips of a stranded crew on a beautiful

island covered by non-water.

I want you to open to me,

and taste me, let me

quench your thirst.

Show me what is dry.

Cold fingertips and curled up toes,

fetal position,

tears of life draining vitality

~to be missing you.

I am here,

on a stair,


hoping to be noticed.

Do you see me? Do you see me?

I will hold out my hand, for eternity,

palm up,

waiting for you to hold it,

I will die waiting,

unless you find me,

until you find me.

I am reborn with your love,

the phoenix rising from her ashes,

knowing no truth but the here and now.

She is warm and collected

and knows the great Truths.

She will show you Heaven

if you can meet her amongst stars.

She will be sitting on the stair,

reading in the store,

floating in the air,

with her palms up,

to embrace the possibility



Our heroes always have a love story.


When You’re Alone

And the time stands still, marked

only by the shadows decreasing inside

and the eyes who spied the time

calling it here.


of moments inside of moments,

what to do with them,

what has been done before.

Standing in stillness,

I open this door.

Please be with me here,

I am scared.



I want to write letters to everybody I know,

I want the letters to include artwork,

something that allows me to touch them

deep inside, where they feel seen.

I do not think it is right to buy

frivolous things, or worry about

people that do not need immediate

attention, because there are terrible

things happening in the world.

I love my soulmate, I have a soulmate,

they are the one I am with who gives me

love. We have searched for each other

through time and collided here, in this spot.

Am I meant for intimate love?

I am unlovable for any just one,

how can you love me when I am

not the same me you knew, just a moment ago?


Coffee, Tarot, Highways, Mom’s House


Am I dizzy from too many orgasms?

Is my brain getting enough oxygen?

I tried to channel the previous walk that was pleasant and the one before that which was most pleasant. But this was not possible.The craftswoman outside did not catch the love I was giving her. I could not look up after that without fear of being catcalled or ridiculed. I entered the cafe, where I was greeted with pungent pregnant silence and the red-haired barista who composed the first memory. My thought then, “I want to fuck him”. Was it wrong to want everybody to smile at me when I walked in? I tried to see him out of the fantastic goggles that were on before, alas I could not. I was jumpy and aching and insecure, but I made it out with coffees and a cookie.


We ate breakfast and drank the coffee while we spent some time in post-sex, cuddle land. I read his tarot because of the custom blend of incense designed for readings and I forgot to shape the incense into a cone. His reading felt haphazard. I didn’t feel like I touched him deeply. Fold up, try to start again.


So I considered death and what it means to consciousness to die as a body. Is there an awareness around decay?

Mom’s House

She had food, and space. But I am a desert now, and too much space can be filled with too much emptiness.


2:46 A.M. Words that Became Because I Was Un-becoming

To keep on going, I must write on the page.

I’ve abused my communication guideline and

for this I must pay. So, I suffer inside and it feels so

intense that the only release is on the page-

as I bleed words into the virtualsphere. Where they

go, I cannot know, I can only hope i am not a fool in the end.

What it is like to be an artist is to feel like a balloon inside, so

pregnant and full, is always on alert and prepared to go into labor

at any moment.

What it is like to be crying for salvation is a child

trying to crawl back into the mother’s womb instead

of feel the life stripped away before our very existences.

What it is like to be a woman is the constant urge to create.