Neues Museum Berlin

I’m afraid of him.

So I dream of kissing women

While he kisses me in my sleep.

I’m afraid I can only get hard in the kitchen

Or in the living room.

The light goes off and

I turn it back on.

The bed is for sleep- the

Bed is a serious place

I do not

Perform well this month.

Time starts in England,

And ends up as fragile as piss

Damp toilet paper off the island

Of Samoa.

no one likes sending a lover a love letter- to which there is no reply.

A Turner

Babe I find your affections counter intuitive. Let’s talk. I will be at the café below my house tomorrow at ten twenty- ish having coffee. If you can make yourself available please join.  I don’t like not knowing us.  I’ll be alone.

There are peoples hands you are suppose to hold.

I held the hand of a dancer, a lawyer, a republican,

an architect, a cook, a doctor, a med student, a photographer, another photographer, a stylist, an intellectual young man, a friend of my brother’s, an engineer, a Portuguese speaking American about 6’5, a musical theater guy, another tortured intellectual this one an Arab Jew, 3 Poly Sci majors, a child psychologist.

Merton’s Law “ When something is perceived as real, it often becomes real.”

1)   1Curio Parlor with Tess – Trendy Dancing.

2)   2Explored Modern art Museum.

3)   3Oberkaumpf  Bars with Dom

4)   4Dancing at Cud

5)   5Saw Buenos Aeries Boy- felt oddly connected to him- chatted and had drinks.

6)   6Slept over at Buenos Aeries Boy’s house. (kisses)

7)   7Explored vintage flea market avec D and J.

8)   8Made out with Rhoman in the 1^st- Beautiful walk- boring convo.

9)   9Had beautiful lunch with D and J

1                 10 Morning after sleepover at Buenos Aeries House I ran through the streets of the Marias for no real reason. The glorious spectacle of life. My own spectacle.

And I guess somethings just can not be said. 

And maybe moments are lost within the 'encoding'

of emails, phones and texts- leaving the decoder

with a handful of electronics- broken grammar- and 

a couple rare fine lines. 

'what did I want to tell him?' I ask myself every time 

we hang up.

'what did I want to say?' is the eternal longing of a boy in love.

What did I want to say? That you are the genius. 

That you are the one with words. That this anniversary doesn't 

mark a date- rather it dances to the music of a story. 

 That lately I have been running to teach myself something;

what that something is- I do not know. That in my attempting 

to be pure I worry I am doing it out of guilt. Guilt for what?- I'm not sure- or maybe I do not want to admit it. 

I wonder 'what does he want to tell me?'

I wonder about how much effort it takes.

I think of lighter things- I wonder if one can eat too many blue berries?

I wonder why the waves are bigger in the ocean this year- in comparison 

to any other year. 

I wonder why people let me bite them. I wonder why people don't bite back.

I think of Paris- then spend the same amount of energy trying to submerge 

it back into the magical abyss it manifested from. I take cautions in submerging

memories- I try my best to conserve the magic. Protect the magic for my next adventure. 

reminding myself that magic is work too, after all it is a magician's trick. 

You say "the child is born- the next chapters are the education"

The smart things you say- feel like your fingers running through my hair. 

I wonder what he has to say. 

Adolf Von Menzel

We are just friends.

 I cannot sleep over because it might look bad.

How fine is the line?

The truth of the matter is

 people do take me more seriously

When I wear fake glasses.

I see

Newly trained hands-

Political science hands.

But I think of

Cobble stone wetness

Cigarette smoke

Scarves of black-

Floral musks

I take confidence that

 Our thoughts are

 Dancing outside on

 The grey chilled street where

The skinny intelligencia

Relate stories, economics

And love affairs.

A Paris education.

Madame de Pompadour will be postponing her visit to the United States- she is waiting for the politics to lighten up.

At my father’s house I cannot sleep.

I avoid becoming full.

I eat frozen blue berries with honey.

I study French.

I ride my bike to the beach.

I fold Japanese Kimonos at a textile museum.

I visit the town’s coffee shop daily.

I look at my stomach in the mirror.

I make friends with the prettiest palm tress.

I don’t drink.

I try to scare myself.

I talk to my mentor she tells the Mexican President came to her Party

She had two body guards  and a Spanish translating make-up artist.

I talk to myself

About my husband-

About  dirty subways

I talk to myself about

Succeeding and Failing

I conclude failing is not an option

I can always move onto a boat

And have friends over.

I’ll roast baby potatoes- rosemary.

Typical beautiful things like that.

So bring on cold weather

Bring on the apocalypse. 

Little bags of peanuts while you wait-

Women in Baby Blue-I’m back in America.

Assimilation anxiety

Touch your toes in the

Washroom- smell the blue.

Tomato juice.

Hold tight while you wait to get off.

Nachos? Quick Beer?  

Facades of the olden days-

Facades of a village-

Facades of a what it could look like.

Four toddlers all wearing the same Nike jump suits.

Oysters- House, Humble of course- expensive wine though- lots of paint- lots of veggies, friends-

- early mornings-breads, oaty breads- coffee- one more coffee- black nights-

sand- quick flights to the desert- You find a skeleton of a whale on the beach then we paint it black- back to the city- rush rush - inhales- crazy inhales- crazy people talking a lot- I fall and scrape my knee it feels kinda good- but I don't need to be reminded I am living cause I know you.  

The old man on the train has girly eyelashes.

Sadder than the German Burden

More Serious than a Flag

At Night

 At night I treasure

His whiskers scratching my sheets

Upon calm Inhales

----------------------------( 0016024101091)----------

a message in a bottle. 

Burns in Fashion

Burn in Florida Swamps

Burns- Are you in Love with Them?

secrets

Secrets

A Tiger Stripped Shed,

Recently I have developed a fascination for secrets. 

 Secrets, which I keep under my tongue- under my smile- under my day to day. It all started when I witnessed a black beetle fall from a large green leaf. The beetle landed in the soft dirt on his back. This ordinary black beetle 

turned out to be not so ordinary. On his back the beetle was helpless- he could not do anything but wiggle his multiple legs in a soft

mechanical wave. I immediately thought:  'how do these beetles ordinarily get right side up again? Do ordinary black beetles go their whole life in fear of falling onto their backs? Do their beetle friends come and save them? Do they wait for a strong gust of wind to blow them over? Or is this the Darwin plan? Do ordinary black beetles that fall over on their backs become a snack for all the yellow-bellied birds around these parts? Is this beetle a weak beetle?'

I took a closer look at my friend. What I saw was that his underside- or as what I like to refer to as his belly, was a magnificent mirage of metallic rainbow shine! Yes, his little well oiled mechanical legs danced in and out of purple yellows reds and blues. Shinny refractions of light bouncing.

The humor in it all- the beetles beautiful metallic rainbow belly is only seen when he is helpless on his back. That beautiful underbelly which surely serve a purpose for mating or organizing social beetle hierarchy, it is the same rainbow shine which catches the eyes of his predators (the suspect fat yellow bellied birds I).

             But I am not his predator. And I know what it is like to be on your back sometimes. With none of his beetle friends in sight; I extended my pinky finger and delicately propped him back onto his well oiled mechanical legs. This is my first secret: Ordinary black beetles in the South Of France near the city of Laroque des Alberes, are not so Ordinary--in fact they have shinny metallic rainbow bellies that shine, for us, only when they are most vulnerable and out of luck. This is god's humor- not science. My beetle friend has luck. My secret is safe with me. I have told no one.

Secret # 2: At our farm- we eat dinner on the patio three times a day, a traditional family. Outside green paint on the wood of the shed is peeling off. I studied it. I tore some chipping paint off so I could see the wood. And to my surprise- I observed that the wood behind the paint is naturally stripped, like a tiger! The wood is Tiger Stripped! So at dinner occasionally when everyone is chatting and eating and my brain borderline apathetic, my thoughts travel to the green shed. I laugh inside- because while my host and fellow wwoofers are chatting, I know something they do not. I know that just next to the patio there is a tiger stripped wooden shed. I imagine a day when the paint is worn off- and the shed will be naked. It will be a naked Tiger Stripped Shed. How endearingly humorous and beautiful.  

Secret #3: Children are not defined by their anatomical length, strength and mind capacity. Rather they are defined as children because children have the ability to run past you on the beach laughing and playing while simultaneously unaware of your existence, and unaware that they are kicking clouds of sand onto you and your towel. Children are Sand Kicking Clowns. 

Secret #4: I am hypnotized. Because I see the clocks that pierce your heart- while the same ones pierce mine. I feel the same gushes, fingers, time, fogs of different cities, red velvet carpets, seconds that leak violently, fresh water,  the 'us.'  Perhaps more poignant is that I understand so much of what is not me- so clear and honest, and I wonder why I cannot understand more of me.  The fact that I know this love is more than me. This us. That so many buildings in France have made tribute to Us - Liberté, égalité, fraternité. 

My secret is that I have told my secrets to the one person whom it does not feel as if I am revealing anything to but my own original thoughts. You are the receptacle to my secrets; you are my true love - one secret I need not keep. 

I found a thought of you- that I am nervous to share. Like pink in the face- powder blue shoes- a teal green patio for tea.

How intensely pleasurable these thoughts- fragile and innately Rococo in their essence:

        

 I want to ask your mother if he was like you.

If their love was like ours. I want to ask her where she found the energy to have such a big, beautiful family.

The saddest part of the Princess Diana story, is that it is a terribly boring story.

Do You Have Life?

Do you have Life?

And if so

What does the interior look like?

Is there a photo of your mother

Holding on to you?

Her ageless boy.

Is there a window

Lit by purple street light?

Do you dip your mind in its

Holy sorrow?

Do you whistle your prayers

While snaking late at night?

While in bed

Does your cell phone beep

Surreptitiously in a soft blue corner

Harboring the smell of babies

and tired shoes?

Is your lover afraid of getting cold?

Does he wear thick pajamas and sweaters to bed?

In the morning does he smell like bread?

at the MET- Masqueraders

Rome

On the street

I passed a carpenter

Who sells honey.

Lime

Peach

And

Lemon

Doors

Down the street

Where the virgin hangs

On little angel fingers.

Five hail Marys

And two cokes later

I wondered what I

Originally sought.

Milk Breath

Be spacious with your thoughts,

You’re getting old.

Ask yourself:

Did he have Apple Pie breathe?

If he did- brush his teeth in the ally-

How many sweets did he hide?

Write about it.

Write like you want to pee it out.

I loved a Milk Breathed American.

He had a red scruff beard.

Drank beer with orange slices.

Made chit chat about gods hitting gods

On the T.V.

This man had 2 T.V.’s

A seventeen year old son

And a strong relationships with his neighbors.

 The Flat Side of the Knife

Black clouds in my coffee

And I like to think I am a new car smell-

I am your father’s mistress

Your mother’s envy

Your brother’s dead dog.

　

You?

You are a Greek clown

Riding a Vespa in Sicily

Your body is Mozzarella-

People cut you…

Gzzing!

I am the flat side of the knife,

I am-

Shinny and reflective-

look at your face- it is on me.

And upon your child’s first birthday party

I am the colorful icing

Smeared on your infants mouth.

Violent- colorful,

a darling snap shot.

I am not a tacky tattoo.

I am the sound of a new text.

My smell

You can find in your lover’s armpit- before or after sex.

My mind,

An exposed sex tape streamed live for your fame.

 I am not enough evidence and you still prevail.

I am-

A dark mole you never had-

The failed relationship you still get horny for-

A credit card commercial that inspires you-

I am the dare you failed to do in your youth,

The awkward moment you have framed and hung in your mind.

I am the old toothbrush you can not throw out.

I am unforeseen love-

I am the protector of your mozzarella body.

Yet, in the fashion of skanky American reality shows,

I hear people say…

“I am not here to make friends”

“I am here to win”