SIDEWALK

If your body were made of the cement outside my house I’d write you love poems in chalk and lay my body down on the sidewalk to be able to talk to you. I’d place my ear to your hot surface on a summer day to hear you whisper to me. Treading lightly- I’d be careful not to scuff your surface by dragging feet. If kids spit gum out sticking to you and turning you gray, I’d spend ours outside with a chisel scraping you sparkly clean. But you wouldn’t be like sidewalks downtown that glitter as if the act of sparkling takes away the grime and crack cocaine residue.

My Beautiful Scar

Tracing the dance of the needle in my skin I wonder why we choose to scar ourselves.

I wonder why we fall in love, and put ourselves through avoidable hells

With emotions cast upon us like evil spells, and the needle dwells in my back

Try not to react, yet shudders break my concentration like thunder

Shudders break my concentration like you walking into the room.

Shudders break my concentration like-

OM

And my beautiful scar resides with my heart

Reminding me that no matter the situation

No matter the heartbreak and devastation-

I am Gracious Harmony

I am one with the Universe

And all I have to do to converse with her

Is

OM

Hunched over the cold metal chair I-

OM

And though I cant see him my mind sees the lines being engraved forever in my pores like ancient drawing in caves.

And though I cant see it, the flower which lives between my shoulder blades in constant bloom is one of passion-

And I know my passions are always in bloom trying to keep the balance between my mind and my heart- remembering to leave room

My teeth chatter and my focus is obstructed

A violent vibration through the core of me

Pulse palpitation while you pledge your love for me

Try not to react but shudders break my concentration like thunder

Try not to react but shudders break my concentration like-

And I remember to breath deeply into my heart chakra and-

OOOOOMMMMMM

Ah to love

"Those wounded in love, unlike those wounded in armed conflict, are neither victims nor torturers. They chose something that is part of life, and so they have to accept both the agony and the ecstasy of their choice.
And those who have never been wounded in love will never be able to say: “I have lived”. Because they haven’t. (Paulo Coelho)"

Marinate on that.

Down On Me

I am raising suns & orange moons

Searching for traces of God in ruins, twisted up and woven between blades of grass.

And I day dream of the past moving like molasses

Ring around the rosy around & around & around my last man.

Evaporation of so many plans. Crumble into millions, millions broken into trillions crowding, irritating every crevice of me like sand.

I miss you like I love sex on the beach.

I miss you like I love to each a peach.

You moved me with the power of a Dr. King speech.

I’m raising suns & orange moons

I’m raising sand and hell and I mine as well raise myself too.

After so much spent on raising you.

But we’re movin on up like elevators in this world baby

I descend down to get grounded to my earth, and swells of you break fourth within me and rain down on me.

Love rain down on me.

I am setting suns & blue moons

Hues of human love blend from red to rust & blue to a melancholy shade of dust.

Yet we will transcend, our heart and mind bend to reach to some higher understanding of

Purple.

I get high above the city.

I sit high above the city.

Casting light, my love is plenty.

I think about the man I’ll love

And how he’ll bring me flowers, just because they’re pretty.

I sing high above the city.

Twinkling lights fade in & out as my eyes go blurry.

I smile to our mother moon

Because I know my love is coming soon.

I know

My Love

Is coming soon.

Love

rain

down

on

me.

The Collector

I am a collector.

A dusty shelf in the attic

shelters romantic smirks like plaques

It is home to hundreds of ephemeral smiles

And plasticine memories, wax once reflected as Gold

now malleable by time

Love’s lost sparkle and shine, molded and changed.

Yet nothing is rearranged, collecting dust bunnies.

Dead left for display.

Figurines boyfriends set nestled in with crystals and candles

Dried rose petals

I can’t seem to rid myself of their bodies. Pieces of them left deep inside of me. I dig them out and put them up. (Maybe if I can look at them objectively they wont make me so sick and heavy…?)

One boy left his dick on the shelf. I kept it even though the rotting flesh left a constant reminder of what was. And One boy left a whole arm! Sometimes I take it down from the shelf and lay my head against my favorite contour of bicep. There is no warmth to help me sleep.

There are scattered freckles of all shades and sizes from each boy. The one brown one from one love’s inner thigh, the one from right behind the other love’s ear, a bottom lip freckle and a collar bone mole.

It’s not just the shelf I keep loaded with my loves.

My purse is heavy too. My purity weighed down.

I carry them everywhere I go. I wrap them in bubbles and flesh. Fold them into my stomach and tuck them behind my ribs. I feel them when I sit on the bus, I feel them as they dig at me when work gets slow and I stair off at a dark window. Thinking…

My figurines are puppies, some even made of chocolate, hollow like Easter bunnies.

One cold lonely foggy night I feel hungry and I bite the head off of one, and fall sleep gripping onto another.

This figure melts under my heat and half its body slips, melting away- right eye and mouth sloping to an eventual drip

Dripping all over everything. Staining everything. Making a mess of everything!

Wake up and wise up. Its time to clean up, dust things off and purge my possession.

This is my confession. I possess it as it possesses me. I search for resurrection.

I want to covet you and you to covet me.

Cover me in resin, preserve this perverse desire to be destined!

Lady Sings The Truth

Them that's got shall get

Them that's not shall lose

So the Bible said and it still is news

Mama may have, Papa may have

But God bless the child that's got his own

That's got his own

Yes, the strong gets more

While the weak ones fade

Empty pockets don't ever make the grade

Mama may have, Papa may have

But God bless the child that's got his own

That's got his own

Money, you've got lots of friends

Crowding round the door

When you're gone, spending ends

They don't come no more

Rich relations give

Crust of bread and such

You can help yourself

But don't take too much

Mama may have, Papa may have

But God bless the child that's got his own

That's got his own

Mama may have, Papa may have

But God bless the child that's got his own

That's got his own

He just worry 'bout nothin'

Cause he's got his own

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nQgzEQhtTm4

Healing

Breaking up is like a death

It's okay for your heart to break.

it regenerates itself-

like a lizards tail or a star fish. If you cut off one of a sea star's legs, it will grow back. If you cut all 5 off, each piece will generate a whole new star fish and the nubby center does too! So there was a coastal town trying to control their over population of star fish; they captured a bunch, cut them in half and threw them back... The population doubled.

what is my point?

I don't know.

maybe something about an abundance of love in the universe...

I'm exhausted and trying to come to terms with the self induced only socially acceptable psychosis we call Romantic Love.

We have made of romantic love a beautiful picture in a frame encrusted in rubies and diamonds. Never forget that those rubies are your blood and those diamonds are your tears.

(A course in miracles)

Ephemera -- William Butler Yeats

	„Your eyes that once were never weary of mine
	Are bowed in sotrow under pendulous lids,
	Because our love is waning.“
	And then she:
	„Although our love is waning, let us stand
	By the lone border of the lake once more,
	Together in that hour of gentleness
	When the poor tired child, Passion, falls asleep:
	How far away the stars seem, and how far
	Is our first kiss, and ah, how old my heart!“
	Pensive they paced along the faded leaves,
	While slowly he whose hand held hers replied:
	„Passion has often worn our wandering hearts.“
	The woods were round them, and the yellow leaves
	Fell like faint meteors in the gloom, and once
	A rabbit old and lame limped down the path;
	Autumn was over him: and now they stood
	On the lone border of the lake once more:
	Turning, he saw that she had thrust dead leaves
	Gathered in silence, dewy as her eyes,
	In bosom and hair.
	„Ah, do not mourn,“ he said,
	„That we are tired, for other loves await us;
	Hate on and love through unrepining hours.
	Before us lies eternity; our souls
	Are love, and a continual farewell.“

Why?

1. Because Angels exist and they ride the Muni.

2. Because an arab retired pimp cabbie named Project X, handed me a bag of purple and a swisher today. I asked him "why retired?" he waved off a reply in his thick accent

"Bitches are crazy." word.

While I rolled the swish, he drove me to my destination and he asked what I do. I'm a host and a nanny.

"You should dance."

"Like be a stripper?"

"Ya. I know this one bitch over here in Richmond and she makes hella money, and she's ugly! You're hella cute."

I thanked him and said he's not the first person to suggest I try stripping- my grandmother being the main case here. This is a direct quote after I asked grama for a little financial help, her response:

"Well you know Anastasia, those girls dancing on stage make real good money."

The reality of this is that now even if I truly considered this career path I couldn't do it because I've talked about it with too many people.

3. Everything Erykah Badu sings speaks profound truth to me. Listening to her brings me closer to myself and the universe.

4. Because I hate when people touch a roll of toilet paper with wet fingers leaving a row of wet spots that penetrate the tissue. It grosses me out.

and I guess I need to tell these things to someone.

5. I am acknowledging Being, being in an in between. We are all in constant change. Energy is not created or destroyed it just changes. Be aware of the space between. The rests between notes, the breath you take between speaking and singing and moaning and crying. The space between relationships. Between ASKing and receiving. Moments of rest hold it all together. We'd drop dead without a breath. Space allows everything to Be.

6. Love is real. Real is love.