Naked Poetry

And I’ll go for a walk

The kind of beautiful where you have to look away for a second, almost like you got punched in the face, but it doesn't h u r t necessarily, it's not that kind of pain, it's .... It never happens and when it does it shocks, and also soothes, I can only hope that you love my face that way too...

Have trust in me, judges. I have the most tremolo possible. This shakiness isn't all technique. The illness it won't speak don't ask me. My friends tease me Parkinson's. I smile like a rainbow jump-roping and think if they even knew my grandpa--how he lost is eye on contact. His sisters hands. She ran with scissors. The ultimate catastrophe.  Maybe that'd shut them the Fuck up. Bastards. Gorgeous, gorgeous bastards. I watch my lipstick stain my diet coke.

She's 80% complex. 20% lethal I can tell you how she'll end. Her neurons will cross my fingers. The universe will give up its knees. Her name will become the very transportation I seek. The love will rush away. Her eyes will stay awake. The pupil pushed forward in an effort to control your mind. You will find her on S. ocean Blvd. Your motions will slow and your heart will scream for a witness. Air to God god damn goodness goodness goodbye good friend. The sea she is... 80% complex, 20% lethal. I'm talking about Palm Beach. It is not an experience, it is Eden on Earth.

Engaged. Preferably to an odd man. Il Est Riche! Ideally opposite

Of all you reflect. You secretly hate it all and want to be with the girl who handed you the flower ring.

She tried it on Seven hands to make sure it’d fit you right. Dropped to the floor—caught you when everything fell.

This is as far as I’ll go.

One day I remember having this conversation with Hadley, she was watching a documentary on Georgia O’Keefe and it gets to the scene where Georgia is painting the mural and I see her write something down in her notebook. This is what it said:

“She paints like she’s trying to re-write history.” I love what she said when she spoke about heartbreak, when she was so heartbroken that she did not want to paint and when she found something and she would ask herself like she wouldn’t be sure who would want that. But she thought, you never know, someone else may find this animal skull to be as beautiful as I find it to be. Who knows what they might find.”

Well, you do something similar, right?

Yeah! I said. Well I think every artist does. I think all of us do. We just write or create what we find beautiful and hope “

Do I?’” She turns to me, looks at me.

eyes wide and open.

“You write like you’re trying to bring life to life,” she

Segment where once I week I will attempt to explain why or how I wrote a poem or two. The segment where I explain the inspiration behind the poem.

Sentence me to order

Niagara Falls

to stop Falling.

And the Sahara

to drink more water.

And for Pluto

To come home soon.

SHAKE me–

until I’m

Morse Code

“USE the silence,” I say.

 Until I am nothing but

numbers in your night vision

I have become silence–

with my glossy lips

and certified fingertips

O, I’m more than California.

I’m California on mute

and waves in reverse

I am

New York City

with grey hair

and a gold suit.

I am Fresh air.

A seductive under-cut

I am loose letters

dividing your attention

into thousands of endings

you’re desperately looking

for a kiss

That doesn't exist 

How is it you  

Are completely silent

when you yell?

If I would’ve known...

Between echoes

You found your boundaries.

never on time but you could always relate--returning your own calls

within accuracy

without emergency

Wishing to emerge free

From the only flaw you saw

Hiding you from all the important

Angles.