Atlanta has been popping up in my work for years now....

To Atlanta; the seas have cast you not into shadow yet.

Close my eyes, watching over morning. Naked, beyond comprehension, we lie like two mechanical deer’s frozen in the snow. I'll watch over you, as you sleep, listen to trains in the not so distant future. Nostalgia and regret creep back in; my back hurts as the jet takes off to lands in Atlanta.

Missing you will have to wait until the moon is too full of itself to hold water.

My eyes are soft now, with thoughts of spiders making webs between our toes. Your cigarette smoke lingers in my pinstripe jacket. You know, the blue one, with the sailor buttons. You always did like my Marlboro's best. Awoken, breathless, forsaken and cold.

I drink too much, play Beethoven on the piano and read a lot of trashy novels. You watch too many late night John Wayne re-runs instead of making love to me. When I'm gone I'll wonder why the sand never holds our shape when we move or if I was the only one spared or just not invited.

To tell the truth, your mouth was the only home I ever wanted.

--

A Morning In Atlanta

I lived near a doughnut shop

where the skinny pretty sex goddesses of the ave

taught me how to turn tricks

and that Love is just another whore

who charges less than I do.

They taught me how to make

eyes like symbols of grief

but didn't tell me it was

Clearly An Illegal Act.

They locked me up.

In jail I bought into

their 45 caliber conception

of sexiness

although I was never comfortable enough

to pull the trigger

Instead I wrote poems

stapled to the side of milk cartons

with my face and a phone number

distrubted them in Chinatown.

"Have You Seen Me?"

"I am more you than you have ever been."

But no one ever called.

Ever Called.

I wanted to be a red-headed girl

everyone wants a red-headed girl

but no, I was dishwater blond

with expressive eyes and sad hands

and a lot of tacky regrets

I lived in a motel with strawberries

stayed in bed all day

masturbating.

felt very comfortable with myself.

very uncomfortable with you.

You screamed into my mouth until I woke up

Love had passed! Love had passed!

As if death were some sort of test.

I woke up again after the fog lifted

all black eyes and bloody lips

looking like a morning in Atlanta.

high grade pharmacuticals creases

reflected through a dirty mirror

repeating embarrassing words

lies costing more than truth

truth too busy being lies.

This morning Dawn told me

she was sick of her job

and quit.

From "Hey Diddle Diddle"

We stop for food at a diner near Sheboygan. Our waitress sports K-mart rhinestone studded glasses and a pink uniform that clings too tightly to her thighs and breasts.She has spatters of unrecognizable food on her apron. She heaves her heavy body to our booth with coffee and omelets.

From the kitchen drifts the bittersweet yearnings and adolescence angst of Gene Pitney on this autumnal morning. We watch the lascivious flirting between our large pink watiress and the tattooed ex-con that made our omlettes.

I point to the ample pink buttocks and whisper to Cow, "Do you think he plays these songs as a hint to her?"

Cow turns her head excitedly to peer into the kitchen., "Oh. You know what? I think so."

I raise my eyebrows and grin at her, "When songs like 'That Girl Belongs To Yesterday' and 'Half Heaven Half Heartache' play he looks at her so longingly. I wonder what is going on? Do you think they've ever done it?"

Cow bites her bottom lip, her eyes flash with fervor; "That's a fantasticly seductive idea. Can you image them in the walk in freezer! Her pink uniform pulled up over her huge hips, her red lips smugged against his neck and her dishwasher hair falling around her face. Sweat dripping down their bodies into the open containers on the shelfs."

Her stocking ripped and him pushed up behind her with his stubby fingers covered in grease gripping her buxom bosom. Pants around his ankles and their faces contorted in a hot moment of ugly lust."

Cow licks her lips and continues. I look at her in a pale blue wonder, "I can imagine it now. His low grunt as he pushes into her as far as their jiggling fat can go. He ejaculates and her large bosom shakes as she cums. I bet their after sex stink reeks like rotten eggs."

I shake my head and laugh. Cow takes a sip of her coffee, "That is disgusting."

Back in the car flying south toward the backward part of town. It’s twilight when we reach the neighborhood that Moon has taken hostage. I stop at a red light and Cow is gone. At home I fall asleep as the rain stops and dream of waitress with Maxwell House eyes, marmalade thighs and scrambled yellow hair.

-----

Riot on 1st and Marks/ Underwater Ceramics Sanitation Technicians

Cyrus and I are making a EP this weekend for my class about my time in New York. We are recording under the name REO Sleezewagon. This is the lyrics to Riot on 1st and Marks. It is a kinda heavy metal song. I'll post the actual song tomorrow after we finish polishing it.

Searching through raindrops and neon lights.

Watching the trail of taillights

A riot to know where you start

A still night and a change of heart

Taxis honk and swear and swerve

Alcohol drugs and shaken nerves

Collided strangers and worn out hope

All for the ability just to cope

(chorus)

I’ve seen it in your eyes again

The lost feeling of a downcast friend

Survive the winter for another spring

Stumble home to empty arms

Bruised and worn, lost my charm

Chronic smoke stain fingertips

Flipping through old manuscripts

Old coffee and half eaten bread

Knotted wood and a lumpy bed

Eyes filled with the lies I told

All I can see is everything I ever sold

(chorus)

I’ve seen it in your eyes again

The lost feeling of a downcast friend

Survive the winter for another spring

---

I also have another song called "Sitting in a bar in SoHo in a cowboy hat drinking alone". It is a country song. It makes me happy.

--

Here is a newish poem. It is kinda silly. I'm not sure I like it too much. Still -- I feel like dishwashers have been overlooked.

Ode to the Underwater Ceramics Sanitation Technician.

Between ice cubes and liquids

catching glances

of red buds of cigarettes

howling at the moon

looking up

god couldn't

have created a better sight.

doorways change daily chores into occupations

my hands are permantely puckered

marinara chips under fingernails

grease soaks into canvas shoes

I divulge in palm-olive

yellow gloves and grey water

the official sponsors

of underwater

ceramics sanitation technicians.

--

Doesn't quite do it justice. Se la vie.

Pre-New Years Love and Longevity

An Occasion and Countenance.

Your body lay concealed in mine; I kiss your shoulder and taste sweat. The moon hung low as I lay awake, watching your chest rise and fall. Running my fingers over your broad shoulders and down your back I tried to imagine a life with you, but knew my faults kept getting in the way of any hope I may have. This year has compromised me.

You stir in your sleep, roll over and close your arms around me. Whisper love that you won’t remember in the morning and sleepily open one eye; the kisses will remain with me for years after you have gone. I push my body against yours, move my legs and nibble on your nipples. Your smirk opens your mouth and presses against mine.

You remain inside of me as we lay butterfly kisses on each other. A small glimpse of trust finds its way inside our mouths as we disengage and lay in pieces next to each other. You roll over and sleep takes you as I place my hand gently on your side and try not to cry.

Days later there is devastation in the aftermath of intense heat. I await your return only to finally recognize your lack of self-awareness. Your number changed and mine stayed the same. I caught a jet to a city of flashing lights and stilettos whilst you resided to a state of ice and nocturnal daydreams.

In the moments before slumber your smile gains my nostalgia and the thoughts of your laughter intrudes my ears. The sirens pierce the nights and the volts of electricity firing within my reason conduct themselves to a peaceful rest.

The reluctance of fluidity spars the occasion and countenance. After all, it was all we ever knew.

--

se la vie. I need to get out of this depressing prose poetry rut. Argh.

still thinking of someone who does not call

Obsession is Another Word For "Love"

Passing into antiquity – I thought only then of the fireflies glistering in between the rail tracks – each absorbing a small ruminates of love in this post-modern world. The buildings are all replicated in a fashion sense of North by Northwest.

Passing an old building that had remained lost in time that aged about the region of A Glass Menagerie. It was all very Tennessee Williams. You quoted a phrase from Gertrude Stein where I much rather speak in words of E. E. Cummings. He is too hip you argue over sparkling water and cucumbers. The air is a toxic smell of rain, sunshine and paper mills. In the distance a mountain rises over the horizon and claims the lives at least three skiers each year.

It was Tacoma, Washington that stole love from me. A hard pressed day to find romance in its business center but at a small record store next to a strip joint you bought me The Police first album. I tried to pass this indignity off without too much trouble but knew if you had just spent that extra dollar and bought that Mingus album then maybe we would have had a chance.

It was Olympia then that had us sleeping on floors with flamenco pounding outside in this mid-July sort of exuberant heat. Down by the docks -- the smell of salt defined out smiles – we tried to hold together but knew that the wine had settled and the only thing holding love was a small string that could have expanded to rope if I had just let it. It was the sun and the clouds that fought for days imploring matters both existential and mathematical. The heat came as the sun rose to speak and your eye quivered and changed colors. I questioned if your wax wings could hold my glaze and then you fell like Icarus and I lost you then but I had won the debate.

As time progressed I found a certain hope for the loss of prophetic fate. Sabotage is not answering questions.

---

Falling For Apperances

Waiting for the train, the safest place to hide from you, the platform stirring with the passing students from around the city. The smell of your left over cologne lingered in my black coat, you know – the one with the sailor buttons. The words could not be forgotten as they raced over and over again while the trains passed in the opposite direction. Fingering the necklace you bought me that day portside near Tacoma, Washington, San Francisco seemed to be the loneliest place on earth.

Platform rumbled and the doors open. The smell of the putrid body order and stale alcohol took over the nostalgic smell of you. Back in Oakland I went to that small café of Webster where we had once wrote in silence while drinking drip coffee and not talked about how we cannot live with each other. It wasn’t love we both had realized, but the idea of love.

We had walked around the Mission days previous and saw the Christmas lights glitter with hope of families and decorated trees. Holding hands and talking of a future not involving each other although we did not admit it. You wanted little ones running throughout your earthquake bound townhouse. I wanted a home by the bay and a room for writing and waiting/ we could never agree on the color of salmon but quibbled endlessly over the tone of peach.

Before the platform, before the tunnel to Oakland, before the café where we had not talked we had seen the future boil down to an incident that reflected all the reasons that we could not make it.

Your painting still hangs over my bed and I’m sure you look at that poem I wrote you on a daily basis. All we lost was time, a name and some nonsensical debates.

between you me and paris i find myself alone (again or)

It’s been three years or more and I still can’t get into it. An ordinary angel tossed about feeling disrespected and disillusioned. It’s a junkyard of false starts and reoccurring mistakes. I see reflections of the future in the cup of water. I’m not everything I am supposed to be.

The dog sits silently besides the window, watching rain fall and looking longingly at the leash. We haven’t been outside for days. I can handle this myself but why torture the dog? I grow tired of the dim-witted answers he barks back at me.

I think I can make it back after the end of the day. It’s a slow concept, reconciling myself with only my thoughts to bother me. I’ll try sleep, my body wanting independence from my brain. It’s a closeted process.

First I lay on the right, think of all the possibilities. Then I turn to the left and find all the faults I thought I could escape. On my back my mind is tormented with thoughts of both but then sudden it turns to Paris. In Paris, my mind tells me, you were happy. Europe knows disaster and I am not it. It is the country of cheese, wine and languages

In America I could never figure out what made you so unhappy. Pictures from countries before relapse in the safety of a pitch black mind. A condolence of regrets and remorse little the floor after the winter has past. Cliché, but your vulgar silence offends me. It’s all about what we did and didn’t do.

Instead of talking to me, your repetition and repletion of persecution surrenders to the pain of your mother’s guilt. The first half of my cigarette smoked itself. I cannot tell as you tell me over and over again to “finally show some goddamn emotion”. It was never about the high we discovered but more about the connection that I really craved. The remote memories come seeping back and place me in their righteous addiction.

I’m here today and they expect me to be tomorrow. Looking out at the substitute scene placed before me, I can’t see the future without knowing you now. Decomposition of found objects, shifting my weight from side to side. The main attraction was me, but I tried to pass it off as you. Hiding from the mic and looking in from the side.

In confidence I eagerly promised to stand and deliver. All in all I felt justified to take apart all what wasn’t right. Our versions of honesty are very skewed.