Mente Mezcla

Sitting on the dock of the bed, The wind contains me from your open French doors (the opposite of my fire) Next to you, Picture windows framed above Free against the Colorado night sky... Starry mountain high We shake our butts nature nude Skin on skin Rustling Aspens just starting to Crisp A musical soundtrack for our giggles And the lottery we’ve supposedly won Though I still question if I could be enough Or if you are Or if or if or if... We pass out. And despite myself, I dream ( you are conspicuously missing, though your hand rests gently on my thigh) Instead, I am soaring through those trees Above it all and onto the night sky Like a Chagall Angel Ready to blow a trumpet, blast it loud Charging Gabriel So strong Michael drops his sword And Azrael wakes the dead. I look back at you, us Sleeping And crave that slumber Crave what is to come So I climb back into my skin With hope for a me, honest to me For once.

I never thought when we chose towels, rather I chose towels and you the house with the garage, purposing our most purposeful roles ...I never thought that I would be here standing behind myself right now in a mirror looking at the tile in my new place My new place and thinking, how could there have been this foresight? actually how could there Not have been this foresight? Why do these towels match this bathroom, when they never did ours? and that lollipop silk nighty, the pink i was so sure of the luna de miel colored syrup proportioned in perfect complex measure madonna and whore, the one you didn't understand It too matches this space So who were we when we made the us decision? because it certainly is not us now.

This door is marked private, If I let you in Where will you stash your ink-stained sin It could be small dogs barking into caves Brave, I hear that motive rumble motorcade Invective, stunning and worthy of a wink Sink into me honest I’ll let you know what I think

He stands there  Completely unattainable to me Happy and gay The only one I'll ever love So I don't have to... But truth be told He is not gay And I am not a lover, Just rejection phobic

Proletariat moonshiner, lost in scandal’s rock solid breast Waiting for something lucky to pass your way Waxing jovial, mixing publican Bootleggin Tempter Your eyes dance across lies, Open tip jar laughing You make lovers wary, crush tears to ice And rouse weak mean brave, Hero to toilers and hustlers alike But when the crowd erodes And fluorescent sins rise, making way for broom, mop It’s your chapped hands and sullen mouth I crave Against my breasts and thighs

Silver shadows stalk in stillness. what is closed yields. and i feel you there, at the crux soiled stones washed free in wind and rain... (the brook bubbling like the lava that heats it deep within.) My leg still curves across your body in dreams contained, frozen Tupperware solid and the trees whisper, "we peaked through your windows that night." taunting, deliberate leaves shaking their laughter at our folly.

The danger of running in shoes that don't give you solid footing is that you could trip. But to trip is to stumble upon something new and leaving one shoe behind isn't all that bad if the someone who finds and returns that flipped flop, your grounding, is yourself.

The current is strong for this time of year, and rain keeps falling, grass no longer thirsts but glistens drunk, vivid and erect hopeful. So I turn down that road again, the one with the dirt path and charm -->hoping for a covered bridge, open-ended shelter But my selfish fingers u-turn, wheels spin tires and mud my eyes. As a traveler I have lost my passport here more than once before. the moon scrapes tides, our boats drift sarcastically... and in these years when the sky is generous so am i No matter. when the sun shows his high yellow face again he will ask for my hand and bridges will cease their magical allure and dying grass will yield to fresh, less haughty seed.

Apparently the parents say it took 63 hours for me to enter this world, Kicking, screaming and generally pissed off. 32 years…Not much has changed.

hmm. all the words un-worked, the ink left in my pen ( the ones before type before pixelated word replaced indigo altogether) it turns out that i can't reconcile how making them appear on a page can be so easy but pressing them into hearts and minds Hercules' lot. sometimes, as they spill from tongues and fingers it all chokes midway through thought, partially in phrases, separated in sentences or worse the block appears. the slow one, the mythical beast creeps in for some when happy, having found peace. lurking only in melancholic prayers to lost lovers and sorely missed demons for others in the moments when mist clears, their mountains visible from even the flattest crests, lovers separated by oceans and time zones reunited then they write beauty, lyric, harp songs: exalted poetry but what of the time between emotion when there is nothing to pour, the honey well dry but still sweet, dewy potential it's in those times i wonder where the soul's light switch really dwel...

cat i remember when you were a kitten! big eyes, pointy ears, round-headed tiny body caged with other species waiting to be picked by yet another species... you crawled and careened up my arm, on foreign shoulder perched like birds you would one day hunt a crackling shadow meowing behind curtain drawn windows in front of speckled apartment glass. (our bigger, safer cage.) you wore socks then, white socks we would never be able to remove. you were hungry for my lap, hungry to be stroked, just plain hungry. now they tell me you are older than i with cunning instincts given to a maturity i may never know, you shed ferociously all over my most stunning black and puke in hidden corners mocking mops, buckets, vacuums. your eyes watch me nude here wondering why i take off my fur just to put it back on ag...

Music swirls Chariots staccato-stuck in metal spokes Soul samba Foxy trot, foxy lady Skinny dipping rhythm Submerged, drowned sorrow Of Lovers since evaporated, poof Another sounds Instruments stray from turntables Unforgiving, syncopated Like droplets in still water Dance! Arms crane surfing imaginary wind tunnels Contracted convulsions surround each other Flower petals bursting from Hidden stem within The exotic circle Sabroso, fluid And just when you think: Explode! Everything, everywhere, everyone is Re-leashed.

Black dress Label scratchy, rough. I ask him: use these scissors Sharp end facing me Like kindergarten. He reaches across my fist takes them blade end first pressing dull metal edges against skin, indenting my palm, sliding shears through yielding fingers. Tactile punishment For the wrong question… He disregards the tool. Eyes grazing me, squinted stare, Placing one hand on my shoulder, (suggests the turn) spinning me 'round barely brushing hair above collar holding, Sliding his other hand down my neck, inside the black dress he tears the label swiftly, leaving no blemish. And without peering back I exit the room, stage left, as if nothing really happened.

A baseball player died today and i realized that i like people who believe stillness has soul the inanimate shaped by hand, even mechanized-->the machine immortal too in its mortal creation This picther, he talked to the baseball cushioned it with recognition, words, love in a soft leather glove And while my glass of wine has no place on the stitched lips of a baseball (or sad smile of a child's well-worn-soft-cuddle bear) I know that somehow, these "its" they know as well as we to mourn mortality