Thursday I walked,
Hood high, pace quick
kicking waves within the gutters
Sending tree fallen sailboats
rushing from my feet.
I have a novel in my pocket
and another one to write,
on things a girl can learn
when she stands outside the pale.
My film, it keeps on running
Through chemicals and fog
the substances that pulse
through the channels in my mind.
Observations of mortality,
desolation, sin and grace
sit wrappen within the gray,
the filter of my view.
Photographs and memory
words and written things,
create archives of insanity
I cannot forget


A well polished blade
razored ribs
lurking below the pale
Inhale, collapse and hold.
Beauty's in the details
fine lines and parallels,
that run, tangled ribbons
in a shadowcast design.
Ana was yesterday
and is still perhaps, tomorrow.
Every moment sculpting
scraping away the excess
of shame and guilt
Between my ribs she gave me,
a hallow sort of place.
Ana's blade was carving,
And from her bones she built
a puppet out of me

That is all

My friend, she walked the city
music in her mind
and dancing in her step.
A dark haired whirlwind
fearless of the metal grates
and streetlight streaking rain.

I caught her in the silence
a silken state of mind
muffled with the memories
of hollowness
and sound.


A choir of spirits, altos all
Singing a sweet serenade
Glassy and silver, humming, they fall
Darting, they quickly cascade

Crisp amber leaves, glossy gold
under billows of low cast sky
blowing in waves, muddy and cold
casting off drops as they fly

A melody risen of unknown birth
Musicians from mist gathered gray
Heaven sent fingers, playing the earth
Washing my troubles away

A changing state of grace

Visions of rubies, light caught in the sun,
the corner of seeing, the damage's been done
In spreading at sunset, in darkened expanse
a moment of blindness, a paralyzed dance
From minor to major, a musical riddle
steady and low, a bow on a fiddle
A sightless musician, a dancer gone mad
playing a song to a dream she once had
In puddles of moonlight, and flashes from storm
in candlelit puddles, where images form
moving in shadows, and fleeing the light
the blindness of music, dawns in the night


We plucked cherries in the garden
overstepping rows of earth
where mama planted snap-peas
and blackened soil gave birth
Us muddy girls, we tiptoed
past the grapes, the appletrees
the strawberries we planted
admist a humming cloud of bees
Sweet pale girl, Sakura
I her twin, the cherry red
dancing under August lightening
tiny arms widespread
Caching rain upon our shoulders
Ivory fingers well entwined
My sister, you have left me
with Sakura on my mind

Orion Missed

Now is when I think of you
When summer clapped its broad wings high above the horizon
and painted pale blue sky a heavenly shade-
as night fell, Orion rose, hunting amidst the stars.
I crushed grass, crisp and cool beneath my feet
and ran in moonlit spirals
We embraced the summer nights- they were old friends to us.
Orion drew an arrow, a placed it in his bow
And from the northern sky he faltered.
A solitary gleaming arch, a glowing point, a collision
between the constellation in your mind
and the archer high above.
Once the moon has cast its blanket
Hatsya is at my throat
so summers heat I wrap around me
its all that I can do

Theia's Hands

Into the hazy glow of static
Fraying steel cables, electrical conductors
faulty in design or function
spark lethal jolts of light

I watch them with passive interest
a light show of disintegration
fire-flys dancing behind the curtain
of a former world view

And this too is momentary
Theia in her radiance
winds her hands into the fibers
of pale and dying nerves

And helpless, I am learning
-as vision slips away-
To dive into the waves of serenity
and drift in the cool of apathy

Left Eye

I found God in the trenches
when blinded by some crime
I know not what I committed
for I sin all the time
The fear of losing vision
has brought me to my knees
with hands clasp, head low
bowing, singing to the breeze:
If I could find redemption
If I could live to See
My prayers and my salvation
Would bring God back to me
So I'm a gypsy trader
Bargaining with fate
singing in morning
till the day grows late
Casting stones into the river
Casting nets into the air
Begging god to bring me vision
lest I parish with despair
And my traps, they bring me courage
I catch stars within their nets
and place them where I see them
and reflect upon regrets
I've found God in the trenches
when blinded by some crime
I know not what I committed
for I sin all the time.

Sutros at Midnight

Washed upon my dress
lifted, worn and pale
a spray of blue or seafoam
caught the eucalyptus breeze-
a zephyr of your breath.
I clambered up the cliffs in heels
you chased in boots, laughing
and caught my hand, spun
a dangerous midnight chase.
CliffHouse, ruins, seaside
you in your ambition
stole sixteen years of purity
in one consuming gaze.
Beneath the watercolored moon
you pressed emeralds, gold into my palm
folded me into your arms
and beneath your black coat I found
a sure and steady warmth.


In dreams
memories announce their identity
without words.
Color is louder than voice
and shades are indelible
as emotion.
In the dreams of my youth
New York was a song
and the minutes of the day
changed their lyrics,
and never repeated them.
The freedom to see clearly
was my wild and uninhibited dance,
and I saw clearly
that there was only beauty.
In wakefulness,
I've viewed distinct shades of night
creep across my folded hands
repeat a simple verse
and take away
my voice


His eyes were a shade I'd never seen before.
They shone out against the paper mask, a kind yet glassy copper-brown reflecting orbs of radiating white that shown down in tear-inducing sheets. The lights were far too bright. I inhaled and felt it rattle within me, a mechanical lifeform, my lungs withering with some unnatural strain. Panic. These were not my own. I fought to speak and felt consciousness slip, the grasp a silk thread on my tongue. A word! It rose dry in my worthless throat, azure, indigo, cobalt, kyanos, see me! I slipped further, faded to a blur. Brown eyes froze, stepped towards me and took my hand, pressing my fingers to his palm. Tilting his eyes to my face, he revealed his voice to me as sirens filled the room.
'Blue,' he said addressing white coats, bodies filling spaces, honey to my soul, the word
'and blue
Means she's not breathing'

Brunette Turned Indigo

I sang a song for a girl
while painting her in oil
low and heavy blue notes
a cadmium jazz sad melody

Bronze flesh became ashen
Brunette waves turned indigo
I caught a girl Observing
a memory of grief

Her song became my own
and then I stepped away
beheld the portrait of a girl
All in one piece when broken

Seven and a half stone

Clavicle to scapula, road map down a ribbon
Fingers over solid intercostal waves,
Hello old friends
Iliac crest, your razor ridge
is a chipped and scarred reminder that She is still within.

Ulna, Radius, pisiform, five inches round
delighting in shrunken anatomy
sinew and flesh fading
while memories float to the surface
she steps-

again, recalibrate.
again, recalibrate.
again, recalibrate.

Playing in a rain cloud

Exceptional girl,
waltzing in the cumulus
her loss is apparent

She teeters, arches and is immortalized
a brunette whirlwind
hiding visibly

Her pain only seen by those
who too, have been touched by thunder

Dramatic Language

That Wednesday morning I met a man with service boots
and an unlit cigarette clamped between his lips
He had penetrating, desperate eyes and a nervous,
rain-cloud mind, and he passed time by counting memories,
which he pulled out one by one.
He disappeared that year, out of the city and the gray
behind the veil of medical solutions,
he'd tried to kill his demons and feed them to the pigeons.
For one hour and sixteen minutes before he had been locked up,
All he had said to me was that there were decent people in the world,
and he pulled my hand and held it
to his warm and desperate heart.

Reflections in the Green Room

The girl, the score, her soundtrack,
playing on six, down on eight

oh New York City
The cradle of my ignorance
Where I starved and danced and sang
Where I claimed my title
as queen of the paint-stained underground
and orphan of sixth avenue
I am home in rain and sound
taxi horns and bitter coffee
in snow-dusted Central Park.
Here I could breath and paint and be
as ever I found myself able
fingers stained in oil and ink
hair tight in a bun
singing low under my breath....

"Blackbird, Blackbird , Blackbird bye bye"

Oh New York, your Jazz, you saved me
dancing in summer with girls in black
splashing in puddles and laughing
singing and finding my savior
in the eyes of passing strangers

The girl, the score, her soundtrack,
playing on six, down on eight
I'm going home,
I'm coming home

Courage as the Cure

What you need is courage
to suffer through the meteors
crashing upon tarnished silver wings
and burning like the acid poison
medication for the cancer
of a sickened little bird.
But also you need a fortitude
beyond the pull of gravity,
to spread and stretch beyond dark shadows
and corners of safety and silence
for those future soarings in a foreign sky
have no safety nets or guarantees,
just the wind,
made capricious by some violent planets upheaval,
some black blizzard eruption,
singing through the ozone
with awesome power
that tosses me about in the cloud-cast rivers
that weave throughout the horizon
to which I am future bound

Beyond the Boundary

I walk the streets that used to call my name
That used to cover this world, so small
And yet so very large. How can it be
That these streets are just that, monsters
Of tar and asphalt with cracks of heat and time?
For I have walked these streets
I walked them when they were alive
More than ebon minions of the night;
I have touched the pavement and been afraid,
felt the acid drip into my skin and
watch the colors spill forth with my will.
Or against. I laugh at this simple mortal fear
And so do they.
For once, through the mists of memory
Beyond the Boundary
I walked these streets.

Breath for Music

Pan's flute I play
Pacing the room as I do so.
I watch as the world comes, and goes, and changes
I watch as the flowers bloom and die to bloom again.
And are we not flowers or stand as trees
Majestic and scarred, with feeling to a man
Moving in the azure worlds of Tennyson.
Music glistens above the haze.
A thin, warbly note confused for a bird
Seeking flight again and again in its cage, unable
To drop to the ground in surrender.
Singing the only song I know.
I cling wildly to the slipping away dreaming
That I do not dream, dreaming
That I do not wake.
And the music continues, not needing my breathless air
And the music continues, not needing my ceaseless need.
I play because I know, should I go, I would not be missed.

IV Drip

Two forty five, my favorite time of night
60 milligrams past sleep
Nine hundred drips till three

I am in my paper bed, my paper gown
my paper frame of mind

And something has gone off within
sharp little drums are beating
a battle song
moving through my temples
every drip a violent beat on the timpani
of a panicking crescendo

I am shrinking, but its still growing
I am fighting, but its still growing
I am smiling, but its still growing

I am shaking
Living in an alarm clock
Perpetually ready to sound

Me and my weapons

I am encased in this:
Me, I grew up years ago
when I spread my wings across that city
took that taxi on my own
clutching a briefcase- 12 and old, in lipstick, heels
and a false sense of security
camera by my side, ready to capture the world
so I could hold it in my hand and view myself a God
or maybe just a girl.
I photographed the puddles, a man, a sky, a day
the dogs that roamed the park
in little packs of heavy lidded hopefuls
hungry like my self, and longing for a home.
Me, I am in everything that made that city gray
An orphan of the Upper East, plastic, sweet,
withstanding every blow -like you said strong women did.
An icy little girl, smiling at the man who looked me up and down
Said: 'why, you're a real-life porcelain doll my girl'
hardly understanding how true he really was


They crawl upon the ceiling
flashing nails tearing at the crumbling plaster
leaving tiny semicircular scars, tracing a path
A twisted winding sort of road map
where they have been before
I watch them endlessly
Ducking in and out of shadows, darting, thirsty
They feast upon my nighttime
Pick out your star girl, and watch it keep you sane
Seroquel and lithium, blueprints for a broken doll
When the early sunbeams alight upon my walls
they retreat into the crevices, the vents, the dark
Reptilian, hungry and never satisfied
sheltering behind my lashes, glaring, manic
and when I draw those curtains close,
make fists of paint stained hands
and bring me to my keys, my canvas, my knees
furious, laughing, mad
Many sleep to dream
I simply dream to sleep

Coffee Stains

I think it was everyday, we went to the cafe,
that cradle of meter and rhyme
and the spiraling truths going round,
truths of every day, like the clatter from the
street below, our conversation falling
like leaves in central park

I spilled my black confessions about
like bitter burning coffee
we mopped them up, a messy stain
so much like myself
I'm sorry, I'm sorry
a broken record spinning round

We sat there and absorbed them;
the smells of cinnamon and of grounds
as I begin to think you a dream,
in your absolution and your ease
a cool and ardent lullaby
sung sweetly to our daily grind

A Song for March

Somethings in the air tonight,
The singing moon,
The last days light,
Falling swiftly past the trees,
They gently grasp the stars they tease,
Hold the coldness,
Pulse like blood,
Your icy hands, the ones I love,
Falling stars like fiery rain,
Burn my eyes, yet once again.
Another ship lost on the sea,
Tossed about like lifeless leaves,
Burning waters,
Like a dream,
Fighting hard to kill this fiend,
On and forth, we raise the sails,
We will charge on.
We will prevail.

Her Desert Samba

She is of electricity,
a static snap
lighting flashes of silver sparks
a heat wave, a summer tempest
a monsoon in a tea cup
with pretty flower lines,
that weave around a rim
slightly chipped, and razor sharp.
She is brown and gossamer
fluttering and flowing
the wayward thread that seals the seam
torn and coming loose
She is something silent
observing and consuming
a flash fire in the desert
melting sand to glass,
and blanketing the land
in molten lucent passion
She's a girl left wandering
Singing- low and smooth
dancing to the beats of samba
unaware of who she is
and what she has become

Votre Folie

Pour David- Dormez en paix, mon ami.

I found the better half of you
rolled up, tiny
pressed inside the cardboard box
I filled with photos once
and tucked into the dark
Your eyes were reflective still
of chaos and the crimes
your tumble from the heavens
a massive
fall from grace
But you took it like I knew you would
intoxicated, hypnotized
pressed into the the corner
wild in the eyes
laughing as the shutter snapped
Granting your madness

A Satin Inch

Icy benches, the early city sky
falling in slapping waves upon hands
pale fingers extended, collecting from the heavens
the weighty hum, photographic music

A crushing clutch pulls in to out
violent forceful agony
of all thats been lost and all that will be lost
Images in flashes
photographs and key changes
The day I rose to a satin inch
And fought to hold my grace
an artificial angel
dressed in tulle and anticipation

A daughter to her father
It was my gift to you

I wish you saw me dance


I am from skyscrapers, wet streets, a sunset
the purple ghost over a glittering bay
The twenty-ninth floor
A foggy view
I am from the rain that falls and dances on windows
A sort of percussive music
That brings me to a blanket,
the rich black smell of over brewed coffee
and an onyx companion by my side.
I am in the streetlight glow
of a city to bright to reveal
the stars that dart in and out of vision
Depending on your avenue

Flames and Music

My companion played piano.
And I, Siobhan, would dance.
And when our little home caught fire,
I mimicked the flames with the sway of my spine.
My friend stared solidly into the blaze.
He flinched only once,
when the piano began to spit and splinter
and chimed into a crackled chord.
When the monstrous song concluded,
curls of smoke rose in adagio
and joined in my ballet.
My spirit found its form in fire.
My dance ignited in heat and fury,
As I foolishly watched you go
An ignorant girl
Dancing in the smoke
Finding beauty in the heavy air
and the smell of burning music
Now my music is mathematic
Empty soulless chords
Swirling into the heavens
Like that dusty, bitter, murderous smoke
that carried you away.
My blue eyes became gray that day
A reflection of the filth,
the music and the madness,
The mourning and the man
Willing to die so beautifully

Urban Angels

San Francisco
Early morning mist
Acid and asphalt
as synthesized pandemonium
Beat the cement walls behind me
and cigarettes and eyeliner
turned innocents to vixens
I knelt down in my dream haze
to touch the glass
Gypsy glitter in the gutter
Felt it bite into my fingertips
Like the chill of winds around me
A little girl in mamas heels
Looking for salvation
In blood and glass and music
pulsing through her wires
Breathing in pacific air
and missing my old city
Where children of the nighttime street
Find hope in urban angels
Who wrap warm wings around them
to save them from themselves

Another night

Last night I made your image
out of forgotten tubes of pigment
from my box of bristled treasures.
As four-o-clock came creeping in
Heavy and candlelit, wild and silent,
I found my manic whirlwind
concluding with a conundrum.
The exact hue alluded me
to fill the windows to your soul
and all the frantic, crushing memories
Could not return it to me
I lay upon the floor
bathed in the beeswax glow
and slipped between the floorboards
And dripped into decay.
I lay in little droplets
upon my dusty cellar floor
gazing up between the old oak cracks.
I tried to reassemble
become the person I once was
but even this was futile
and as I realized my wound
I found the perfect hue for you
In the crystalline blue and violet
that lit the horizon at sunrise.

Golden Boy

Standing in the kitchen
polished glowing white under the static hum of unnecessary florescence
you kissed me
and placed those perfect 'piano' hands within my hair
Chocolate eyes alight with that wicked spirit
you carry in your bones
I felt my spine electrify, and my heart began to swell
a now familiar reaction
to the presence of your light.
I found my self delighting in the wonder of such little things
as melted cheese and golden hair
and the sound of a mighty sneeze
Words cannot describe my love
and this is truly how I see you:
a gorgeous golden boy
emanating light in a room
already saturated in midday sun.

Your final melody

I played your song,
fingers dancing in frantic flight across the keys
as if part of you would live again,
if only I was good enough.
I played and played, hot fingers slipping on cool keys
begging the music to bring you back
And all my thoughts of you,
played through my mind with dissonant resound
as the unfathomable weight of your absence
came crashing within the crescendo.
I broke a string.
Heard it snap, scream and die
Its final cry echoing within the polished black prison
attempting to contain it's spirit
The final note of your melody.
So I spent the early hours with you
Embraced the solid green earth
now blanketing your smile
I lay down by your side
one hand pressed to the canyon in my chest
the other to the cold damp grass
I swallowed hard
and fell apart
And that pathetic sun couldn't even begin to warm me
though it fought through the icy morning clouds
to dance upon your grave.