moebius, cast, expanded

with my feet
I patch the streets
of this frayed city,
with my eyes
I spin strands
of words to embroider
the beauty of its decay
on the fabric of my mind.

I'm menstruating and
as my womb wanes,
I contemplate what else
needs help to reincarnate.
sometimes I can't decide
if humanity should be saved.

listen to the noises created by voices
raised in contempt of what's become
of this over-complicated world.
when do the idle sounds
morph into ideas with more
than curled fingers,
and expand into the corporeal
as more than a raised fist,
but perhaps as an extended hand?

proverbial, we sit in the pot,
the water will get hot,
we'll argue about the temperature,
but get out we will not.
decisively childless,
I can't help but mother
Earth and her offspring,
but damn if we aren't the asshole teens
of creation.

human existence
can be summed up
in many ways,
reduced to mathematical
child's play;
a mere twist in a ring
results in endless
cycling.

creating infinity
for its own sake,
sometimes life
feels like the same mistake;
the same lesson unlearned,
a stationary wheel,
vehemently turned.

(whence you came,
again return.)

when this spell is finally cast,
no one will know how clumsy
my occult is.
do you know how unclean I am?
I am of the Earth,
and the Earth is dirt;
so commit me unto her.

when my skull is empty
and all the soft parts have gone rotten,
what will become of my memory?
what will be forgotten?
sometimes I live dirty;
right now, I clean.

I've been selfish with my language arts,
using audiences as my confessional,
and here I am again with more sins;
but Father Reader and or Listener,
I want to go deeper than my last lover
when I call myself out.
let me do the verbs I use
or I curse myself with hypocrisy.

there's hope in the message
that I feverishly relate.
here's some words on which
to meditate:

I am inhalation,
the approximation
of what's there
when nothing is left;
I am exhalation,
the personification
of divine breath.
I am the new moon,
eager to be full;
I am the voice inside,
the one that signals
when to push, when to pull.
I am above, beneath,
between and through;
I am the universe,
and so are you.

let me do more
than hear you
if this propaganda
is well received;
language and art
can be good magic
if well conceived.
take my words,
my eggs,
you supply the seed;
together, we'll become pregnant
and propagate,
with nothing but good deeds.
blind optimism, yes, this may be,
but to affect change we must first believe
that we create our own reality,
that everything is within our own ability,

if we start with small things,
and then proceed.

rich

my mind feels like small hands
unable to hold the many coins
spewing from the mouth
of the universe's muse machine
my words an inadequate pail
and now I prepare myself for
the waking world having not slept
I want to fling the coins into the air
to be caught by passers-by
and share them with friends

this kiss off

eyes slip over me
like an oil spill
and render me
slippery when wetted
by drunken perception

what are you playing at?
this is not a game, player

to save you from my womanhood
you push me onto others
unsure how my standards
would manifest themselves on you
my clit throbs with the possibility
that someone could love me for my politics

"all of which you love will blow away" - graffiti found on overpass

"all of which you love will blow away" - graffiti found on overpass.

blow away like what? leaves? an ill-fitted hat? cocaine in a drafty room? I don't understand how this is profound but it strikes me as unreasonably sad and I wonder at what compelled the author to share this with the general automobile-driving masses. aren't they trapped enough in those metal coffins?

"all of which you love will blow away"

or is it that love is free and as such it can't be contained, comprised of tiny, complete particles too light to comply with gravity, only heavy in large quantities where self-importance is either exaggerated or underrated by putting too much stock in another.

"all of which you love will blow away"

maybe it's comically sexual, like all those who love you will blow away. yeah, blow away, honey, yeah, just like that.

a single confusing line: "all of which you love will blow away"

really. I don't get it. it makes me wonder at the missives I've left on walls from a compulsion to share with a captive audience -- in a bathroom, a warehouse wall, not an overpass, haven't done that yet. maybe my message was just as simply confusing, maybe it made sense at the time.

what would I share with those that see an overpass? I'm not so sure, probably something political because I'm like that.

it's bad magic, sometimes, words. simple phrases that I don't understand possess me, and so I invent my own meaning. I guess that's the point. so yeah,

I want to be blown away.

yeah.

moebius, cast

human existence
can be summed up
in many ways,
reduced to mathematical
child's play:
a mere twist in a ring
results in endless
cycling.

creating infinity
for its own sake,
sometimes life
feels like the same mistake:
the same lesson unlearned,
a stationary wheel
vehemently turned.

(whence you came,
peripheral,
again return

to convenience)

when this spell is finally cast,
no one will know how clumsy my occult is.
do you know how unclean I am?
I am of the Earth
and the Earth is dirt,

so

commit me unto her.

when my skull is empty
and all the soft parts have gone rotten
what will become of my memory,
what will be forgotten?

sometimes I live dirty;
right now, I clean...

so

here's a message
I'd like to relate
some words on which
to meditate:

I am inhalation,
the approximation
of what's there
when nothing is left;
I am exhalation,
the personification
of divine breath.
I am the new moon,
eager to be full;
I am the voice inside,
the one that signals
when to push,
when to pull.
I am above, beneath,
between and through;
I am the universe
and so are you.

in my circle

I taste the bass of drums and heat
flames mouth encouragement to my feet
enveloped in friendship and a chaos beat
words and rhythm, hot and sweet

the smell of your heart beating
startles my sensibility
blue and red I sing your arms to feed me
carry my voice with you
that I might remember its taste
when your eyes shuffle to greet me
still honest in the morning

open letter to Mayor Sheila Dixon

Dear Mayor,

It is very inconsiderate and gimmicky to rush a reconstruction of the roads right by your campaign office because elections are upon us, especially since there are RESIDENTS who like to sleep at night. Seriously, a jackhammer ALL NIGHT LONG? Can I stay at your house, and bring some friends (i.e. everyone living in the vicinity), because I haven't gotten any sleep for the past several weeks and I'm a bit cranky.

Thanks,

fre

P.S. - I'm glad that you have a sign chained on the corner so that I would know that it was your idea; I don't want to misplace my rage. I have resisted the urge to scream at the night workers, because they are just doing their job, they didn't decide to work there. Maybe you could make them fix 295 as it's coming into the city, but, you know, work on the part where people live DURING THE DAY.

vacation no vacation

empty room noise frustration siren application application empty heart full frustration vacation no vacation full empty application room siren noise frustration get the hell away for a little while didn't work.

something for which to strive

once I have an RV just address all mail to my license plate number knowing that I won't be fearful when pulled over by the 5-0, they'll just be delivering the post.

everything makes so much sense after no sleep and before coffee.

I'm a poet, so this is a fucking poem because I say so; prove me otherwise.

geometrically.

nightmares are inspiring, that's for damn sure.

bend to my breeze?

trying to be tall
I witness a young tree
choosing to grow high
between bricks
with shallow city roots

not quite you
I envision you
a bit
more grounded now

I've seen you
deciduous
you're in your tender spring again
all potential
green and excited
uncertain how you'll grow
but budding nevertheless

I can't help but
be all
around you
sometimes
I want you,
shade
it's hot
and I want you
to have me,
air

kisses
not too long ago
you were all decay
and frozen
pieces of seasons past
uncertain how you were
ever a growing thing

you were
when I met you
I wanted to sun myself
a bit with you
a playful desire
decadent
a passing fancy of impulse

as I beamed at you
you started to fade
I barely noticed
or minded
you were all warm color
I caught pieces of you
and carried them with me
satisfied because I was free
to roam

I am
always restless
I am
always returning
I am
always

breezy I focused my attention
on you when you were
nothing but bare branches
did my movement
make you cold?

even in winter
you were sometimes kindling
rubbing limbs
startled flame
I was
occasional lips
I was
highlighted observer
I was
fascinated hopeful
I am

a shiver, a way of knowing
we once knew warmth
sometimes we huddled
sometimes I flitted away

your sunshine returned
how delightful
when you share your swelling
you shall be fruitful again
I wonder at your tender shooting
and what is intended for me
so much
precarious
so much
blooming
what is intended for me?
not so much?
precarious blooming
what will you be pruning?
will it be me?

I don't want you as a cut
blossom captured
temporary
property
I wouldn't bear
to watch

you wither knowing
you'd never return to me
I am
always restless
I am
always returning
I am
always

breezy
I am
always
wanting
to watch

you grow

will you ever want
to weather with another
or follow
some one's meandering
breeze?
are you too fragile
for my affection
could you dare bloom
for me?

I pose this not
as an expectation
for anything but
a wish
for you
to be
whatever it is that
you are becoming
for I am
my own
entity

need
my own
freedom
to change
and be
come more
myself

I am
occasional hips
I am
fascinated
observant
I am
hopeful lover
I am
always restless
I am
always returning
I am
always
breezy
I am always
hopeful
lover
I am
always

zealot, or "you made me do it."

I was a Christian soldier
onward with the Bible tracks
thumping thumping thumping
on doors
on holidays stolen from pagans
I became a dissident
once baptized in an over-chlorinated pool
that I was not allowed to swim in without
a color t-shirt
lest I Jezebel an Elder
or uncle
thumping thumping thumping
I was holier than thou
until I was reduced to a hole in the ground
surrounded by safety cones
of disputed chastity
I memorized each line
and got lost between them
fantasizing about Sarah - did she taste like salt?
maybe I could die
thumping thumping thumping

I fled to the enemy
I wept when I lost Jesus
but did not dare compete with Mary
mother, or Magdalene
but I had to go,
or his friends would get me

not waiting

in the time
between the last cigarette
and the motion of a startled cat nestling
I nap because
a nap is not waiting

beach glass

the shore had been growing
for some time,
and while I was busy
squishing my toes
in the wet sand
where you pulled back
your ocean,

I didn't notice the wave.

I'm flooded with the notion
that you secretly like to drown,
and though I've been
sucked into the rip-tide
I know eventually,
I'll be able to ride the wave
back to where I want to be.

and you will no longer crack
the empty bottle
my heart once was for you
when you treated it like trash.

you won't seep inside.

my heart may be broken right now
but to you, it will become
a most peculiar assortment
of stones.
and each time you wash over me
the pieces will lose more
of their shine for you;

the subtle abrasiveness
you've been carrying with you
like many grains of sand
will provide the etching needed
to dull the pain
and smooth the jagged edges
with which I want to cut you,
but can't.

though left on the shore
created by your distance,
the stones will no longer resemble
something rejected:

I'll be left with jewels,
and they will not be for you.
I will polish them
until they shine for me.

eventually,

my
broken
heart

will
be

the
best
gift

you've
ever
given

me.

(from April 2006)

untitled

she almost hears a sound when she reconnects to the universe in which she is most comfortable. it's a juicy noise, cerebral and sensual, thrilling in a contemplative way. beauty is expressed in the pure logic of chaos; there is math in the curves of her body.

so ass on the pier,
she assesses the current,
wanting to feel the earth move.
vice replaces good advice,
opening her up to
constructive criticism
and even more to prove.

the rain gives the humidity life and the air becomes an entity that leaves a trace.

(from 05 August 2006)

analysis

tangled in my reality
is my perception
of my messy room
somewhere far
enough from here
to be a chaos
I can define
but not successfully
analyze

like my room
my heart has become
cluttered
my life a chaos
I can define
but not successfully
analyze

(from 26 July 2006)

tangibility

proving my existence
through decadence,
wanton jubilation
to do is reality
and here I am,
a manifestation of my ego's
universe.
collectively,
we ascertain our tangiblity.

(from 12 August 2006)

spell bound

piled a lot of others' mattresses beneath me, trying to cover that which bruised my ego
aligned myself with monsters to feel beautiful, closed my eyes so i would not witness their actions
rode white horses to others' rescues, trying to escape myself
a damsel in distress
in denial

climbed to the highest turret in my card castle
seduced by the spindle, the solitude
cursing myself, i locked the tower and cut my hair
ready to hang myself with the rope, rather than bind myself to another
fell asleep, dreamt that i was kissed with no expectation placed upon me

awoken only by dawn
and the nagging sensation of buried troubles

slowly peeled back the layers of my worries
bundled the many beds i had made and laid in, despairing
dragged them out of the castle to be carried away by white horses
exposed the vile little pea of doubt

a sigh and the cards collapse
grounded, i can sleep on clouds

raw.

raw. i want to bleed on someone, want to have arms bandage me. i've been so contained, i want to leak onto someone, be the mess on their clothing. i haven't been alone for such a long time that i don't know what to do with myself. i have a memory of wanting solitude, but i can no longer relate. i realize how much of a luxury it is to have a specific external emotional presence in one's life. it comes with responsibility, and unfortunately, i am not prepared for that. so i must deal with these moments quietly. alone. it's okay. it's something i must respect.

i am not a part of this tragedy

what do you do when someone looks into your eyes with so much pain? i just hugged him and breathed into him and told him that i could do no more than be his friend. he told me that he loves me. i'm not sure of the context, not sure where his mind is... i'm not sure that he knows these things. i know that i'll make mostly good choices in this situation, and not divert too much energy from what is good in my life, but i feel a heartache coming. the kind you get when watching someone deteriorate. he used to be a creature of light, but he's forgotten.

second chance...

you're not supposed to recycle partners... once it's over, it's over.

and you knew he was moving away.

I told him that I wanted to be his best friend so I could visit him there. fucking him was not payment for the trip, it was just an added bonus to the renewed friendship. I felt liberated, was fresh FRESH out of the relationship of my life. I wanted it to work, but...

you were rebounding.

of course.

so you moved thousdands of miles away...

it was fucking Hawai'i! the Big Island is named Hawai'i. I lived there for 2 1/2 months, painfully repeating history on a lush, active volcano-island. it's a lover that kisses with teeth, it punishes you while pulling you in deeper. it took 24 hours for us to re-utter desperate heart murmurings, we wondered what to do. I had seen his eyes reflected in a mirror, at a time when I had forgotten about that particular shade of green and what it did to my sensibilities. I wanted to be single so much, wanted to cleanse myself of the saccharine being-involvedness that was creating cavities in my ego. you may catch more flies with honey, but no one wants to kiss a mouth of rotten teeth. who wants to catch flies? they eat shit, too. I ate it.

I knew it would be an act of God, a gorgeous disaster, watercolor streaked with ink -- delicate, reckless, over so fast... but sometimes you need a particular color in your life. I needed that pale shade of green... I wasn't an artist then. I wanted to be. I bit his lips, licked his teeth, tried to breathe into him. I wanted him to be my muse. I looked at his reflection again, this time in the Hilo Bay.

what color is the water in Hawai'i?

green, then blue, then green... clear. warm. cool. pure. I needed that color. I became an artist. he remained pale. green.

I couldn't handle the permutation, his eyes were muddy in the water. algae. I wouldn't dare mix the shade. he was content in his wretchedness, in his stagnation. as he outfited himself in misery, I wrapped myself in lava, coral, sun. bliss.

Hawai'i punished him, I enjoyed the teeth. I bit back, licked the waves, breathed into the place, always deep breath. it's waiting for me to come back.