who's memories?

who's memories?

what will it take to remember
the good times and lesser of
evils with gods and monsters

letting wind pass by
cloudy or cloudless sky

invisible moon
moving in accordance
with wishes
chaotic butterflies
those storms of brooklyn

i remember a memory
of yours. i remember a
dream that you dreamt

as for me...
i cannot recall
a dream of my life
that dream of my fall

another cigarette

another cigarette

an egg turns on its head and breaks.

the crack is never straight
she looks me dead on
and the top falls off
a kettle to the floor
the water boiling
still as it touches
my left toe.

with drugs
with cigarette ash
and flame
with the dying
memory a dream

carved out pictures
caricature of who
we once knew we were
we are
changed

i am dying with
the thought
i am dying with
the creation
a new beginning
to rot in
waiting...

Without Words

The Importance of Shadows

may i walk in your shade
as you walk in mine?

may i shadow you for a day?

would you like to carry my outline
with you as the sun moves east?

by night

lay by my side while our bones
and bodies rest together and

we dream

thinking through

thinking through

3 myths of America:

privacy
freedom
happiness

ask me again sometime
a different answer might
pose itself on my lips

panoptic death a funeral
panoptic life an internal dream
and then there's reality
in between...

the myths of rights
and privilege
and sane sanity

the myth of desire
the myth of self as sex
the myth of individual
integrity passing as
free life itself.

the difference between

a long and waking dream.
following the night sky.
following the moon's gravity,
the waves and tide of the ocean
and following you too. following those
deep impressions in wet sand.
the ocean making pools
of footprints. the salt water,
the drifting, the pushing of minds,
of thoughts

like the grit of the earth
pulsating between sole and sand

shaped and split into hapa
howlie white japanese
girl poc queer pervert
side-step smoker,
chick who likes her water cut
with whiskey, likes her men cut
with women, strangers to break
apart her soul. strange.

older than my country, younger
than my comrades-in-arms,
and smarter than my fears - (lie)

i have other peoples tears
that proves it. i don't want
my smoke in their eyes. i don't want
my dirty words to pollute their minds
with ideas that destroy their beauty
and their perfection. i don't think i
am a poser. perhaps just
a perfectionist. fighting
too hard for that which i love.

the complexity
the hypocrisy and hybridity
the pain
that turns our faces
towards one another, only i
have forgotten (selective
or otherwise) forgotten
my own countenance as
you turn towards me.

don't look at me
i say in no words at all.
let me be. bones with no beginning
but god knows, god knows better.
and a quite cyborg turns
her face to a different mirror
and something else stares
her back...

you, please, say i,
carve out the lines of me.
let be my own wind
set free. a myth gone
mad...

Secret

i simply did not know
how far my voice carried
(and weighed or wait?)

i took the pill about
an hour ago a nighttime
remembrance a ritual. a writing.
it's hot in here. hot
and good. thoughts
of a boy. thoughts
of a girl or woman and
no thoughts
of a man. "Man," said i
don't believe in them.

(like a heavenly scene. strange
as it seems.) a history, a memory, a
ghost. And a woman
named Billy. A cyborg
named Bobbie. And.
(that's not all. and never
is. fill in my dreams.
...strange as it seems.)

as for me i would rather be
a cyborg than a ghost
flesh & blood than iron steel.
i would rather the pain
full reality of all the senses
the memories of me.

(wreck) collection is a funny
thing. recollection there.
inappropriate and
useful? harmful and
mundane?

it was necessary
that i was involuntarily
put away.
necessary, tragic,
beautiful. (secret)

in the beginning.

corrupting the word
slightly
so it becomes
twice as beautiful.

co-opting the world
so insidiously
it becomes
twice as corruptible.

and in my dreams
you.
and in my dreams
you.
and in my dreams
...

middle of the night

not quite day
no where close
but maybe here
the time after
after midnight
before the sun
even crosses your

mind
maybe here
we can finally
breath
the hardest part
of writing
the words
the hardest part
of love letting

go
the hardest part
of breathing
the space
in-between...

where are your words?

i never wanted
to be a writer
to be a muse.

not some image
who you see as
who i am
in some utopic time.

Speechless Possessions

the day turns
here. the night
creeps passed.

i write people. i
give words
not theirs but,

my own words
i shove down

throats. i lose
my lip. when i fight
my legs give way.

i swallow not words
but my own...

sweet desire,
how shall i feed
myself then?

fighting is such
a ruthless battle
in the basement

in a music hall,
my lips burst open.

who's blood?
the sound of dark.
the drop of
a ring? a tuba? a tremor?

reverberations...
my legs gave way.
i don't know the meaning...

what i cannot say...
you must.

burnt by the sun

it was I who flew too
close to the sun. thoughts
ravished me and i
became undone.

did i realize then?
that (a mistake)
you and i
are less than one?

this night, here

the rain is coming through the door. it wispers. have you heard?
the wind cools the city off like a broom
the electric lights keep the bugs out
(or is it the reverse?)

i won't bother going back tonight.
to fix the changes
writ already.

tonight the rain and i
will weep.