overdosing on internal dialogue

We stretch words between our tongues and mold them like clay.

For the children (those fortunate enough to show their corpses in the news, and the rest)

The world is faltering

pieces falling apart

the decline of infrastructures

unnoticed or mocked

well you know my show is on and besides so and so said everything’s fine

and I know that its my fault

as surely as our bones

are made of the same matter

stardust some fondly say

but alas I a romantic

must tearfully admit

we are but dead residue

remnants of something wonderful

and our initiative is failing

the evolutionary process

that decided

to choose me

and you

should have been more selective


is a well known word

but the images of war

are too grizzly for right society

(unlike that show

you know

the one your prepubescent

and highly confused son

masturbated to last night)

and callousness reigns

like Asma al-Assad

looking into the eyes of the devil

while she’s made over at the mall

bags and bags and bags

I wonder if they recycle those

to store all the small bodies

plastic in children’s pain killers

day care centers

parceling out sedatives

I mean, why teach

these lousy little things

these play dough people

with love splashing out

from every eyehole

every place

capable of expression

into the miraculous world

every one containing

an avant-garde piece

inside their pure and sinless

(yes you insane disease, sinless)


I say bring the world to their knees

if only to force them

to face a child’s perspective.



He who doesn’t

Don’t you know me


I am the sound

that small fleeting sound

that echo’s in your ear

as you stretch out

in the morning,

in the moment between dreams

the one you live

and the one you sleep


I am the hands

that flutter through air

like feathers

like a hacksaw cutting through metal

call me tornado


It can not decide what it is

beautiful or horrible

but always trying

to be known, to be understood


I would rather be the breath

that passes from your lips

into another’s

giving life to love

or something like it


who am I to judge


I imagine myself

as the sound that echoes in your ear

in the instance of creation

that joy filled prideful noise

that begins as nothing,

requires you to hone it down


If I were that happy noise

I would be so pleased to belong to you

I would wrap myself first

around your arms

so that you could not forget to play me

eyelids closed and feeling all the lashes

the fine bones that surround them

cheeks and jawline

I would sweep down the curve

of your clavicle

paying careful attention

to the column of your neck

and I would rest in the hollow

above your heart


Keep me there

like a locket


and when you need to remember

that you are loved

open me up


You know me

I am the sound

of palms finding, of fingertips

and forearms, pale as a swans long neck

of bones moving under the skin

of sweat that turns to sugar on the tongue

and callouses, most beautiful accoutrement


it was you who taught me

to imagine the lives between the layers

memories, of all the strings touched

or caressed or pulled and plucked

into new life


if you’re quiet you can hear me

shhhhh shhhhhh

I am a whisper of skin

suede against suede

overused sandpaper

struggling to smooth these unruly edges

I am a beat

bombom bombom

I am the blood

and the bone and the flesh

of something certain


You will never hear me

from someone else.


Put me on

Put me on dear, like that long cotton shirt

the one starched white and ready to wear around

with the lovely straight lines and the pearl buttons

make a mess of me before you lay me down,

love is nothing but memories piled high

some forgotten and I know I wrinkle easily

but the comparisons unkind, the waste too much

someone was supposed to


fill me up


and sometimes my chest does swell, wonder flows in

but the tide tends to be unpredictable

there is no organized system of celestial bodies to move me

just questions inside of questions, uncertainty

and the sensation of ghosts using my mouth to breathe

making me a stranger

always new lines, alien scars on alien hands

where did you come from reflection

make your home with someone else


your eyes are infinity, they open and speak

but say nothing, remarkable but void, vast but meaningless

it is with blind faith that I believe there is someone behind them

where do you go when they close

is it as the creatures that line the shore

do you spiral back into some beautiful small space

will you expand one day and leave it behind for me

I have a dire need to feel for myself whats inside


fingertips remember everything


the rub of skin, uneven texture of life

we press and press never thinking of the cells we leave behind

the amount of ourselves left on lovers,

the grittiness of dirt, the softness when combined with water

that I were a tortoise to burrow down

I too would share my secret home

if only I could surround myself with the substance that sustains us,

smooth down the brightly patterned cloth of a blouse

it tells me it exists because of someone else’s hands

fingertips that have felt the salt of another continent

do they retain a memory of these dyes,

caress a box of wood inlaid with yellowing ivory

wonder how the elephant was mourned

an epitaph written across the land in the language of foot prints

the animals the carcass fed

small consolation for the cruelty of men

we will never comprehend the level with which they love


callouses hold testament to the length of memories

how long have I allowed myself to love

only paper people and alphabets

strange things for a young woman to marry

in the name of avoidance

friction can not exist where there is only one.

Africa or the moon

There are times

when I feel I might burst

with needing to expel my thoughts

to effect something

usually I’m hesitant to disturb

silence, the dust that forms on our existence     

when we remain the same


stillness is effortless


usually I am afraid of being heard

because it is synonymous with being seen

and options become so finite

when Im being perceived by you

your mind, it is almost unbearable

that I exist inside you

I feel the pressure

to be in action, to acknowledge

that I am alive


I rush to the drain

and force my abdomen

until my organs agonize

empty they scream

you are they whine and always have been

a revelation I can not comprehend  

oh the ache of my moral plight

how laughable

if I were an insect

I would be called conundrum

and I would fly by your senses

and rejoice at my inability to be seen

as anything other than

what I am

and least of all I would miss

my burgeoning empathy


I walk outside and pace

in patterns of moonlight

I become dizzy

with keeping always to the white light

which prints the Jacaranda

onto the gray Earth

even the grass which is yellow and brown 

from the sun

even the purple flowers and the green weeds

are gray

I step effortlessly through branches

that I would not stand beneath

during the day, for fear of the ants

which wind shakes from the pulled back bark

I wade through the moon

my skin turned silver

perhaps because it was gray before

and must under her wide lash-less eye

be changed


perhaps I can release my burden

in a breath of something

so typically human, self-defeating

it will form a ring around my head

and as the angels halos do

it will say look, this is what I am

so easy to become this, fate secure

in a breath brought down

and released from soggy lungs




I wonder why the moon

does not affect the color of smoke


my muscles burn

like being sick

like working too hard

or standing still too long

when your muscles find themselves

trying to decide what they are

I take them in my hands and kneed

arms, shoulders, sides

the curved flesh

that calls me a woman

that women abandon in sterile rooms

to greedy wasteful tubes

to scalpels extended by men

who are blind behind their eyes


I’ve always loved the feel of skin

but this is something new

I exist inside the white light

and I lavish



you have to breathe heavily

when you’re pulling so much

from your perseverance

when your improving your ability

to live.