Teethless christinas.

I was in an elevator shooting through the roof

to the great glass and it was the

Universe there

Spinning itself below

Breath fog

Where

There is no there there,

When I tried to think.

And what about that foggy glass,

Which is like a skin between realities

That you can peel into a thousand different coats

Oh foamy foamy foamy love

Of thee

I bathe while there in the clear field of

The blue light of nothing

Of magic waters

of Felicia , my magic queen,

And crazy love

Is crazy crazy love

And we are mal de amor

Hiding in fountains

to stop from throwing rocks

At Galatea and

her lovers

And the green nypmhs

And their glass eyes that beckon us to kiss

Our own reflections in the rivers

Are the seaweeds of our

Tresses,

Mine mingle

In the wind,

I am a vamp

And a fetish

And you would have to skin me

Before I’d give up

The sun

Felismena la bucolica, idyllic, sick of shepard quibbling,

abysmal self-indulgent

Swan kisses

Knocks off her own socks and

Walks to the city.

.

I was in the morning.

.

I was in the morning

And I think that parts of you were there, too,

Sometimes I could feel you.

And we touched

Some times.

I was in the morning and I was,

Like almost always,

Strewn about, my eyes

Too big for my stomach.

In the morning

Before the light of day

Before the dawn.

Some of us,

From our dreams,

We ask ourselves.

We have to put a limit

On attachment

And dress our selves

In the suits

Of the day.

And others will tell us

What is up

sometimes

And we will have to bow our heads

And get it

And grow.

Some of us are full of potential

But we leak

Like water

From cupped

Hands.

Think of the shimmering

Flash of light

Shining out from behind the filigree,

From the watermarks,

From our birthmarks,

From underneath our skin,

And you can deal

In an honest way

Sometimes

With other people in the morning,

Sometimes

With your self,

And sometimes even

With the combination of the two,

overlapping in each other.

In the slaughterhouse

They will wake you

And juxtapose an image

On your face

And you will be read

And you will say something

And what you meant to say

Will be like the little white bird,

You filled her with water

And that holy water

poured from her breast,

From the ruptures in her wings,

spilling meaning

like watermelon seeds and stickiness and

pink juice

and in the morning it flew

and you could see it,

like a golden bird,

going.

.

---------- Forwarded message ----------

Date: Tue, 25 Oct 2011 15:23:05 -0500
Subject: luisa at the umbral of the mountain


"mare"

to race
myself
we bet ourselves about my gallop
thighs
the breadth of my quarters
their haunch
the wind capacity of their exhausted
heaving,
lapped, tracked,
clinked glass
grated pant
collapsing.

you
Hand flutter
the hooves away,

brush opaque salt
off forgotten manes,
lip
for sugar.

Skip. Skip.
Skip stone skips
my short leap
of wanting
of one bridge
another

stone and beads
to link
drop
hop tranquil
whip

a rein
to separate

my island skins my arching

garland spine a
bomb
colored petal difference
because de noche soy
because
De noche soy
the mermaid at the mast,
a monster of a song called
shipwrecked flotsam jetsam

your water colored tumbling from
the mountain .


geographical rips in hide
of ancient delusion

How to tiptoe on the moccasin sky?

Threshold soy
tu streak
of coral lightning
my dividing
cielo mare
of
wound

of limb bolt wants around
to know my spirit limbs
I kick your heels
I spur your tuck until
I run
your lock
and soy
my own
opacity

eclipse me
into mare
of night
of self
de noche
soy
myself
to race
me.

ALL I NEED NOW IS THE STARS, SHINING STARS DISTANT SUNS AND MOONS AFAR WONDER, WONDER WHERE YOU ARE

we are all antípodas.


.

.

dancing in my head.

.

“I could hear clouds emptying themselves of their contents landing on an indifferent earth; and I could hear the silence and I could hear the dark night gobbling it up, and it in turn being gobbled up by the light of yet another day”

the void

.

.


pide un deseo.






.

.



Let the wind carry me.



.

Dream Train Runaway

.

Dream train

and the dark atlantic sea

shell.

It smells like dry fish.

And dead fish.

And drift wood.

Wood drift in bird shape.

With drift writing on sand wall

palm stutterings before paintings

before pictographings,

avant la lettre

sand scratch.

I tried to write you from the dream train.

I stood on the platform

hurried machine as it sped

swimming my signals

I tried to reach you

the ripples

of my water legs

kicking petals and beams

of outer space indigo light

I sail through the black night

and bed down

where soft down

softly lays

my head and spirit aches.

Dream train

You are a runaway.

Catch me, please,

if you can, in my own arms,

if they can,

catch me please.

.

the beauty of things must be that they end.

.

Are we fallen angels who didn’t want to believe that nothing is nothing and so were born to loose our loved ones and dear friends one by one and finally our own life, to see it proved?

To prove that we’ve all been wrong, to prove that the proving itself was nil…

-Jack Kerouac

Love tends to go ever further and further, but there is a limit. When the limit is passed love turns to hate. To avoid this change love has to become different.

Among human beings, only the existence of those we love is fully recognized.

Belief in the existence of other human beings as such is love.

-Simone Weil

.

.


Heart of Stone.




.

.

Of all things one could be open about,

who had a guru or when was a first time

you felt a kind of femininity and wanted to cut it off.

One with ruffles and polka dots,

a cotton/acrylic/polyester blend,

blue and white prom dress from the 70’s.

It was your mother’s,

you found it in one plastic bag in her old room,

one of those things that was never thrown out for some reason,

apparently pregnant with meaning.

You wore it for a costume to a middle school dance

until you hid in the bathroom having discovered

it was actually a costume of some kind of horrible womanliness

that made your cheeks bright red as your mother’s when she drinks,

or as your own sometimes when you do.

A blush of femininity that feels so embarrassed it is gross.

Later you stepped on the dress on the dampness of the basement floor,

slept on by the cats and full of centipedes.

Of all the things one could be open about,

sex and text messages from however many boys,

dropping cell phones off the bleachers,

kissing and holding hands.

Wanting to hide in the sheets alongside a lover

in the lightning lit room of an apartment

where you live alone for the first time in years.

You smell the aloneness,

you hear it between cracks of thunder.

What it means to hold hands? To kiss another?

To eat? Or to make dinner?

You texted him and he didn’t respond.

You touched him and he came in you,

he grabbed you with his legs and

you felt yourself longing to hide in the cave

his body made folded around yours.

Coming out into the light,

you see landscape of trees split down the middle,

halves arching away from each other,

branches down in the leaf dirt.

Everyone bikes the streets taking pictures.

There is the homeless man, the one everyone knows.

He is out early, you see him in the morning.

You would say hello to him but suppose it would be too much.

You wonder where he slept during the storm,

if he slept at all, and

you wonder if you already said too many words just by thinking them.

You try to sort them but they just accumulate like leaves

rushing up against a gutter,

mashing together,

evening out into little river currents with sideways glances

that run along. Wildly attracted,

you open your mouth and let some out and

close your mouth once you’ve let too many out and judgment

clings to you like polyester polka dots.

You wonder if you have to cut it

like your great grandmother did one day in the nursing home

when she was ninety two and could not remember how to unzip her dress.

You tell yourself you will not tell anyone else

anything else anymore ever again.

You realize you really like it without the lights on,

no television or reception,

with the trees blown down and the dark streets,

with houses dark,

the power out,

to walk alone in a city in

your dirty jean shorts and shitty t-shirt,

wet your sandals and get yourself wet

in the wet grass, as wet as you want it wet,

your skin free from the sticky heat

of all the things one could be

open about.

It feels like the day after the end of the world,

maybe just the morning after,

stormed land breathing its whole body

arches and collapses, you touch the world’s chest,

and you press its belly to your knees.

rokuro taniuchi

.

.


Oh. It's such a perfect day.



.

el paisaje

.

gilda





.

.

.

Harold loves Maude

and Maude loves Harold.

with the stench of the love on our fingers

our inner tongues of petal flowers

all say the same except some have even

lost some petals.

In the nude in the night of statues

marble skin cadavers

hoot and creak and sing

like whales in the arctic

whose sonar powers emit rays that stun their prey

like unicorn bats in the ocean.

Love stunned, love stuns,

Love is a stunning collection of glass figurines,

a glass menagerie of glass unicorns with broken legs

and horns that are actually teeth in the market of my dream all of my teeth

kept falling out like papers and we couldn’t decide which way to go,

drifting in the tides for two hundred years,

I clenched in my fists

the paper flower teeth

until they wilted

and we lay down

like Madeinusa,

and scattered them around us

like bits of shattered rainbow

like salt

or potatoes

to keep us from being violated

by the rough hands of others.

At the checkout counter she asked me for my number

I said Oh no, it’s not Oceania, my name is Lauren

these are my flowers, these are my teeth,

this is my dream where the semi-truck below me goes careening

Up the wrong side of the highway and I’m on the hood.

At the last minute just before the apocalypse after which is only the apocalypse

then I am fifteen again

on the back of Jacob

who was the first boy I ever loved

who is carrying me into the nighttime

and it is summertime

and it is nighttime

and it is summertime

and it is nighttime

and it is summertime

for billions of years.

.

daily text from S.

.


"is it possible to be in love when your 13...i know it would childish love. But still."



it only takes a minute to have a change of heart
.

.





.






timfite.com

Never Lay Down

For Closure

From the Sky to the Ground



.
.

rodrigo reads faye dunaway's tits.

Faye Dunaway’s Tits

“In my mouth though I will hold you

Even though they all have forgotten

The sweetness of peaches”

-Dorthea Lasky

Faye Dunaway’s tits break above the bottom edge of the projector screen

Roman Polanski put them there and it seems Jack Nicholson puts his hands on them

Faye Dunaway’s tits on Jack Nicholson.

Faye Dunaway’s tits are sour tits

Faye Dunaway’s sour tits are unripe tits

she wants no one to kiss or pick

her unripe tits are

her unripe tits.

In the orange grove the orange orb

is the same orb as the peach orb in the orange grove

and these tits are the same tits

as Grapes of Wrath tits

on the cheeks of peach pits

or the way Roman Polanski puts it

Faye Dunaway’s tits on Jack Nicholson

Be held by one,

behold her brow,

it is a Grecian brow,

it is a priestess brow,

it is French fairy brow,

it is like my mother’s brow,

Faye Dunaway’s peach orb tits are divine

Faye Dunaway’s tits are mine,

like a mother, like a daughter,

like a sister, like a lover,

Faye Dunaway is a martyr

All done up in one

sharp suit

in a bitchin’ dress suit

she is one bitch in a suit

and her sweet tits leak peach juice

on our tits and chins.

And they will rape us all and they will shoot out our eyes

And they will suck our peach tits dry,

Faye Dunaway’s sweet tits are mine.

In bed as any regular woman’s would

Faye Dunaway’s shoulders curve.

I am a bear and you are a bear

And we are a bear hunting in a bed,

Faye Dunaway is a deer or a gazelle

or an antelope in a scene

of the chiseled fortress of her brow

crumbling

as the unkempt petals of a flower,

like a lilac, that is coming on your shoe.

Faye Dunaway’s hands cover up her tits

it is obvious

Just how uncomfortably raw and swollen and ripe

and bursting sweet peach juice on our chins

she is.

Faye Dunaway’s sweetness all her own

or is a sweetness that is mine,

and what's mine is yours, bear,

my sweet peach,

my sweet peach honey where

here below me

it is so good,

isn't it comfortable there?

how my peach leaks Faye Dunaway’s sweet tits are mine,

and our sweet tits leak peach juice on our tits and chins.

.

"like a lilac i am coming on your shoe"

.



.