creek music

There was a creek behind the house
where a man waded back and forth in bare feet.
fireflies followed children in the moonshine.

it was there i sat pouring over the hours,
during the days where i thought about nothing
at all for a long time.

except the the creek music that crept like his fingers on that guitar.

But thinking about his guitar would trip my mind again.
If I think about that boy I’ll surly die again.

The man who walked the creek
called out to me that love is scripted scene.

people never read what’s in between the lines.
he said you can never trust their eyes.

Listen, I said, he loved me best.
We always danced, cheek to cheek.

He replied with nothing but a nod and a yes.
I’m sure it was true.
But if he felt as lovers do,
then why do you sit and cry by the creek?

I don’t know-damn.
He must have made me weak.

Still, he said, the heart must beat.

strawberries+arsenic

Her fingers were  birds gunning
across gray northern skies. She touched ivory
 keys while her ivory teeth
        clicked, clicked, clicked,
 to the waltz that she played with finesse.

When her husband came home he
neither spoke nor loved. When that man
came home she neither slowed nor spoke.
Her teeth went click, click, click,
to the now choppy rumba she played with vigor.

And then she stopped playing to fix him
a drink. His heart consumed the papers
colorless news. She poured in his
poison and kissed the glass; her teeth went
        click, click, click.

His heart beat once and then twice,
twice again, then back to one,

and was done.

self portrait on a tuesday

my eyes, your eyes-
they are everything that i despise.

we dance, marching back and forth in unimaginable patterns.
the lies are what lie thick and smooth.

we eat till our hearts pop and then start it over again.

but now i will walk away; you will know me another day.

this is a faded portrait for some days i cannot be whole.
today we will not dance, you may not romance me,

i said we cannot dance. do

not make me repeat it.

will you disown me?

or seduce my hands and features with paint,
running the paintbrush down my hair when you are done.

i wish to play artist too.

paint my face,
paint my face as it should be seen.
a divine Versailles, use a heavy hand.

(whatever can be conceived) the reveal and the diagnoses,
the mold and the dinner party,

these things are my work.

i cannot be stereotyped for i am my own.

what proof, what case can you make
to provide or define reasons for keeping a secret
which holds no reason.

call me your
goddess of all seasons,
and you may take me in four poses...

wet your brush, i will strike timely.

letters to mrs. downing

1.

my dear mrs. downing,

I don’t know why I’m writing this to tell you who I am, for I do not think you really exist.
But I write because I like to think you do, I like the think that you sit in your garden drinking tea with milk and honey. Staring at the flowers as if they long to keep you company and speaking softly to the trees (who always think you funny). Your cat, well I’ll call her Rose and she’s soft and black and sweet. I bet you don’t suppose- well I’ll write of that come tomorrow.

Sincerely,


2.

my dear mrs. downing,

Do you take it as an insult that I don’t capitalize your name? What from it do you have to gain anyway? There is nothing in a name, that is why I do not talk of my own. We shall not discuss it, unless of course you just must know. Neverless, capitalized or not, my respect is yours until I die mrs. downing. Don’t think me rude for not showing to tea, but I was much to nervous for that.

Instead I hid behind the tallest tree and made faces at your cat.

Sincerely,


3.

my dear mrs. downing,

I should have named you Austen, but downing seemed more gentle. the only Austen I know is Jane, and well I do not really know her. Nor would I ever, she and I would agree that we would not agree. She is such a bold looking woman though, or no. She is such a sad looking woman!

Dear mrs. downing would you care to join me for dinner to-night? You can tuck a response anywhere you like along your front fence, I’ll pick it up shortly. I do not wish you to see my in this dim light, my shadow is frightful shameful.

Sincerely,


4.

my dear mrs. downing,

Last night I dreamed of dreams. They were horribly, well dark. When I woke up I found myself looking around for you; I forget you live down the way and not with me. No need to answer this,

it is strictly a means to security.

Sincerely,

5.

my dear mrs. downing,

Hello again! Did you see me yesterday, I was off meeting Jane. Jane Goodall, I’m sure you’ve heard of her work with the chim-pan-zes. It amazes me how close the jungles of Africa are! mrs. downing, surely you never thought that they lie behind your garden wall! There were amazement's of all sorts.

Don’t venture in alone, call me first. The jungles are known for their danger.

Sincerely,

color chart

the doctor told me i only had four more days to live
if i did not color my world by tomorrow afternoon.

he told me, girl you need some color
to lighten your step and make the sorrows fly.

i said i’ve never heard of that. he said you
wouldn’t. i told him i couldn’t and so he shooed
me off with a color chart.

were the apples really red? I could tell,
I didn’t look. they were too loud. damn
chart.

but he told me, girl you need some color
to soften your taste and hasten your thoughts.

i said thoughts!
see i all ready got those doc.

i said i’ve never heard of that. he said you wouldn’t.
i told him i couldn’t and so he shooed
me off with a color chart.

b is for bananas. b is for
brooklynn, b is beautifully green.
so b will be a tree, ack! but it’s much
to much. i’ve never seen leaves

look so serene. black is more chaos,
more my style, so you see doctorman,
why i haven’t been here in a while.

but he told me, girl you need some color.
it’ll make your hair bigger- don’t need it.
it’ll make your skull thicker- ha. don’t believe it.

doctorman, doctorman,
i’m done with your colors man.

doctorman, doctorman, we are
finished finished finished.
i buried your color chart. he said,

what are we to do with your colorless heart.

days

[scene]: vending machines, ten till ten.

the machine eats my quarter, jo asks freshman for a quarter. freshman hands her water, thinking that what she wanted. i curse, we run to hills. mallory provides quarter, coke is obtained. (pan out) jo ramming against the vending machine while i slowly close the door because she's cursing at the top of her lungs. good thing facade is not glass. no one likes blood on candy.

[scene]: united states history ap, i forget the day

(zoom in on mr. oder) he's talking about the people in new Orleans using the government provided credit cards for lap dances and such. (cut to visiting parents in the back) unfazed. (pan out) everyone just keeps writing, in my mind i wish i had sneezed over that part.

[scene]: english language ap, a few weeks ago

(cut to dl) speaking with passion "like when your writing to a lover."

(pan out) class silent. i'm amazed at the ability for juniors to be so immature.

(cut to dl) "i shouldn't have said lover..."

---------------------------------------------------

yes calvin, the days are just packed.

{fin}

the musician and his writer

*the musician and his writer*

what is it that's different today.
tell me what is out of place-
is it my face?
well there must be something in it
if i am still in your good grace.

you spent the morning settling affairs,
(i spent mine dreaming of a french soldier adorned with a Croix de guerre)
and then you played your saxophone.
smooth as the morning itself,
and i raised my coffee to your good health.

when he plays it makes the angels shout out loud;
they bring us linings from their clouds.
and since angels are partial to dark liquor,
i pour it in a bowl and watch them drink.

the ribbon of the typewriter whines
while i pound pound pound-
i am pounding the worries out.

i can say so much without a single sound-
come with me. let's explore downtown.bring
your saxophone. i'll wear your hat and you
wear my scarf. we can make our way
around the park with my arm through yours
and i'll scatter our pages on the ground.

my sins?

or yours.