You’re No Santa Ana

I scribble the truth in sand                                                                               

Of an international adult playground

Trickling between my toes.

I watch

Juan Ponce de Leon

Swimming in our underground

River

Picking shells of bryozoans,

Leaving the mainland

Just above sea level.

Listening to the lisp of the sea

Curling on the tongues of

Bystanders

I listen to the torrential downpour

Disguised as rain.

Paddling through a city

Binging on humidity

Filled with splintered homes

Keeling sailboats in the bay

While

I kick my stilettos in the mud

            Dancing with el nino’

My mind cracking coconuts,

Eyes blistering with salty sweat

Wishing on a rainbow

hanging west of Washington Ave.

           

White shadows shiver between

Powder puff seas of clouds

Palm trees blinking like casinos

            (One would wonder if God

            Gave birth to Neon)

A city of turning weather

Ripening berries on beds of poppies

With the murmur of water

Releasing vanilla air.

Living in a box of breath

            I exhale.

            Kiss me, Miami

For I have spread my crisp, linen sails.

farewell my black balloon.

the dark days are over, yet it's enthralling how our senses change, how our taste lingers. the little buds of abomination and jealousy rests in the back of our throats, tickling that miniscule ball that hangs in our throat like a sideways clock ticking and ticking and ticking and tick.

our vision decreases, the colorful pupils absorbing what's left of our darkness. our touch illuminates right through us, a sort of grip-less desolate numbing sensation. our smell lingers into the kitchen and onto the tabletops, and into boiling water and smoking bullshit crying for attention. and in between the crevice where our identity rests to conform us, where our nostrils hold its breath to memorize us, where our senses cave in to never forget us...we forget.

our eyes open in a room of darkness as we lick the salt off our lips, dehydrating our minds. our eyes beat to the silence of our touch so reminiscent we can't feel ourselves anymore, and the tapping of our feet becomes bitter as our reflection stares through.

alone in a room of darkness we remember. we remember the way you looked at us, the way you touched us, the way you inhaled us, the way you tasted us,
the way
    YOU
          tasted. alone in a room of darkness we remember.

farewell my black balloon, i was a heavy heart to carry. and if you may find me again let me be so over you, a sort of high i will never experience again. leave me here in the shadows and forget me in a room of light. the dog days are over.

for the sake of nothing i'm back.

isn't it fascinating? we all thrive for the inexplainable. we long for the inevitable. hell, the remarkable lies naked in noises flossing between the truth. so what the fuck are we here for anyway? before you know it we all resume as insufficient credit: good for 30 days, good to be purchased within the premise, good for nothing because God knows you won't want us next season. we're like shoes. the expensive are unattainable, the ones on sale are recyclable, the ones not in stock are unforgettable. 


i want to be good credit.
let me remain in your wallet, 
paper-thin and permissible. 
and when you spend me, 
may you miss me when i'm gone. naked. disheveled in tin.

Classified.

Normal Girl Seeks Normal Man: 

-no, offering to double my salary is NoT intriguing, i repeat...offer...

-first the stalk, then the roots: do not use your folly like a stalking horse; whoever told u we are 'meant' to be together is a LIAR. (secret service hires fake psychics.) get OFF my palm, (f*ck.)

-we will NOT cocoon together like a butterfly. you are a cockroach for telling me this; "small adult with no wings." (you are INcomplete metamorphosis.)

-if love beats to the sound of a drum, may you beat to a guitar with no strings.  

i want a nice piece of toast.(croutons need not to apply.)

FLY.

Studded Louboutins? Really? SICK. WTH did he start making sneakers?

star bright.

i have no place to stay so i linger under your skin,
where the vent is just right blowing high 60s late 70s
(the crawl under your chest hair beats the best
            blanket ive ever draped.)
crimpy fuzzy funky kinky
    crumpled wavy           convulated
                  looping ringlets
i can braid you as i please, please.

thank you for the one night stand.
your heart as my alarm beating every hour
just make sure it wakes me for yesterday's wet dream,
for tomorrow's maddening men who rest on your tongue
  
who are so fucking deafening, i could strangle their boisterous laughter with your braid. dirty maggot man.
thank you for shaving.

thank you for the light bulb lying in your esophagus
sticking so shallow, its beam as bright as your swallow.
burn it out for i am still dreaming lucid thoughts and rude awakenings.

my gelid bum is bare.
thank you for your hospitality.
now fuck off-

your rent's due.

she moves so fast.

.GoLd LioN.

im lying.under skin hide, rubbing against the pelt of the bovine species, roaring against the bull's bellow.do you hear me.face me.listen to me beat me bully.im lying.

my face swallowed by 2-dimensional silhouettes large enough to split my pupils in half, (    ).im lying.as carnivorous remains, as you step on my deer shaft body, softly. my breasts now encircling your feet, your pinkie toe rests against my fulcrum, your body pivoting in swift motion to the beats of my ticker.
          do you do you like face,
mine covered by a beast's belly. could you smell me when they burned me carcass, belly up.
         did you watch them unzip me.
          did they bathe me.
            did they touch me.
              did they cut me.
                           did they hunt me.
                                                                                                      did they drain me, bull man.
                          janie's got a gun. stay the f*ck out of my woods.

RIP ALEXANDER MCQUEEN

Artists Wanted: vote for erica simone.

Workin' Hard (Hardly Workin') in the Meatpacking

Not-So-Holy-Days in the West Village

Fashion Poor on Houston

The 1 to the Bronx