Born to Die and Born Again

I was born angry at life,

wanting to die,

separating myself from those others,

I’m better than…

I’m worse than…

I’m all alone here.

Leave me to die.

Who would have thought there was a reason

for me?

Not I.

The greatest truth is that

there is no separation

and there is no escape.

It is all available and right now,

pushed further by anger.

I am not alone.

I have never been alone.

I can never be alone.

Trying to is not strong,

I’ve learned that the hard way.

I have to learn how to be here, with you.

So be patient with me.

I love you.

I’m sorry.

Please forgive me.

Thank you.

And that girl,

the one from the dream,

with long purple and black hair,

may she be freed.

Perhaps she only can be by me.

Perhaps she is my baby.

Perhaps she is me.

They all are anyway.

I am he as you are she as you are me and we are all together.

Goodnight World.


Here and There

It is a gift to grasp at my anger,

to use it to create, to re-create a moment later.

Poetry feels fraudulent as I try to capture

the moment before this one.

The one I had to let go of. I cannot

summon it from those places

ideas go to die.

My anger carefully sprouted from

rock bottom,

watered with tears, fed by the fire

of not-giving-a-fuck.

Where is it now,

after I have treated it with a morsel

of soma,

medicine to get through

another night of living

in the fallen world?

Until next time, I suppose.



I wound up on your island,

Near your front porch where

They put in a restaurant and stamped

It with the U.S. logo. You came by,

Slick and quiet, to say hello.

I tried to act cool, like I did not

Want to know everything. But you

Knew I did. You did not indulge me.

You had the aura of a man who

Had been fucked by a real woman

So many times you became a real

Man, and I was soft and sterile,

Pre-menopausal in body, mind and

Spirit. Everything was different, you



She was with her new friends,

A Syrian-Israeli female soldier

And a group of cronies. One of

Them asked you, “so she has to have sex

With you to live here?”

“No, to be a Priestess,” you said,


You looked slick and edgy,

Cold, the warmth was gone.

You did not want to meet my

Family, you did not want to meet me.

We are light years away now,

Blood pumping in opposite

Directions. It reminds me of

The Skeleton Woman. I must

Become as death and lie with her.

You must become as Death and lie

With her. Do you have the Skeleton key?

Just the blood pumping heart


I had a dream God laughed at me.

He said, “woman like to pretend they

Are superior to men, the creators of

Life on Earth. To give birth, we must

Have a seed on continuity. Why do you

Women think I made you so pretty?

So much ugliness in life already, most

Of which you bring. How else could I

Ensure productivity never cease? You

Still need a seed.”

What is to come but the dark and vivid

Dreams of night?

Where my lovers fade, where my true

Love waits, making jewelry and taking

Classes on metaphysicians. He is chubby

Or he is from Maryland. My dreams,

Reminders of those who are stayed with

Me. Not real but in the sense that I

Care. My lover, the man of my dream,

Touched me on a mountaintop of

Crystals. But he did not tell me

He already had a lover.

The Skeleton woman objects. To be

Initiated, you must fuck a corpse.

Maybe necrophiliacs are on to

Something. Perhaps I should date one

Of them. They would love me even when

I am dead.

Life is full of false security.

The only constant is change.

The western world wants to put us

In boxes, and bury us before our time

While they keep corpses alive. Breathing

Is not life, not only breathing anyway.

Wolf packs travel with a vanguard of

Elders to give the rest of them a chance

To get away, to protect the young.

When did we stop living life for God?

Self-preservation or immortality.

These days feel like self-preservation.

My womb is empty and hostile.

My spirit is empty and hostile.

They asked me what I wanted to be when

I grew up and I said, “a tree.” Well, only

In a dream.





Schrodinger’s Lavender

It must be a fruit fly,

dead on my thigh,

drifting over my birth mark

of Orion’s belt. I remember

this time last week,

he guessed what it would be

before he dipped his lips and

begged to kiss it, my soft and

milky relatively supple skin.

Just like now in reverse, he was

lavender when he breathed hot

air on me, and now he is dead.

I project myself to a time when

I am old enough to see not so

supple skin. Everything looks better

in a bathtub. When I was a girl,

I did not think about these things.

They always ask old people what

they would say to their younger selves,

what about writing to my future self?

It is romantic to think of a letter I would

write to myself and never read.

It is romantic to think

somebody might care about me

more than I care about myself one

day( which is not much, despite

the rudimentary evaluation of

an ex-lover). What is the legacy

of a Jewish-American woman?

The role models in entertainment,

in medical fields, in law offices,

we are everywhere, filled with the

guilt complex and instability of

being a Monsanto plant with

superficial-reaching roots. Nobody

cares about the Jew, unless they are

hermaphroditic, or transgender, or

black. Impress me, Jew, do your dance.

None of it is even that good. What

about the Jew with the long face?

What about the long face?

What about?

Those Hindu Hare Krishna tableaus

with the process from birth to death

piss me off. I only capture this moment

in poetry to prove that I once existed here,

in this moment, that there is something to

show from my time in the middle. The

fruit fly is lavender, though death

does not bother me anymore. I am

at once a brilliant, shining star

and a rotting corpse. I do not hide it

anymore in the American way. I want to

rub it in your face. Why does ancient

knowledge make no difference? “Women Who

Run With Wolves” was written in 1992. I was

two years old. It may be too late for me,

completely filled with apathy. Where do we go from here?

Preach to the choir. Make yourself happy.

Is art worth more than sharing?

We are on lifeboats. Where is life?

Happiness, meaning, dreams, reality.

This is my moment, my breath in a wasteland

of noise.

Where do we go from here?

Dead fruit flies and lavender.

Maybe that is what the Buddhists mean by “emptiness”.