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