where is the moon?

when the mouth is absent,
i become hunger.
the dry episode
like desert hearts beating.
yellow tangent butterflies,
how curious the cement beneath them.
where is the grass,
are we shallow land?
in the prisms
flowers grow a vivid contortion.
the moon is rising,
i have no direction.

carnival

when the carnival comes to town, it always rains. it is dreary, damn, and cold. the carnival lights color the town, flashing, flickering, and pulsing to the melodic drone of the merry music. it is lonely there, a desolate side show, just bright colors beating, an electric dream. i remember as a little girl, awaiting the carnival, the pink sugared cotton candy, the ferris wheel, the fun games and cheap prizes. it always rained though, poured on the first day, maybe with a few hours of sun the second day, but mostly melancholic days. maybe nature was responding to the unnatural presence of fake fun. how removed we become with games and spinning objects. Now that I'm older, the carnival bring nostalgia, and the rain blurrs the electric lights. Painting my memory, vivid dreams re-appear, I am sugered and gleeful, I am in motion, spinning, like my little mind, when the carnival comes to town.

Unburden The Earth.

you are not flesh,

nor water,

your bones rust,

not even salt remains.

by the marshes,

they lay your swelled body,

dirt, some ashes,

gray shallow sand.

scattered around the post,

blue morning bells,

not even death can silence earth.

the wind in every direction,

how confused nature remains.

the fauns pipping some folk melody

mermaids untame. 

do oceans stand in your way?

let me undue

the soil,

un-bare the dirt,

my hands deep,

i will make the rocks of you,

burnt minerals 

and dry blood.

Fake French Kids

I. lust

She is there for you

to look at,

to read,

distort patterns,

piss on & off,

to pretend love on,

fake sex,

make believe with.

II. love?

Holds bodies up to the light.

Some mornings only 

sunrise can mimic presence.

III. the next day.

Trashed talked,

makeup worn,

coffee over done,

droned out silence,

breakfast moves slow.

---------------------------------------------------------------------

i'm experimenting here with the post modernism of love.

Montreal.

Something happens when I am in Montreal. It is this energy that I am with. Transitional moments in my life synchronize around my very sacred journey to this beautiful European-esque city. I have no energy to even put into words all of the delicate details that require to be versed so poetically. It was a timeless experience where very vintage structures surrounded a very modern concept. It was french words, romantic architecture, edgy fashion, art vagabounds, gypsy music, future food, cyborg future party, multi dimensional-digital media art, deep energy work, a step into myself, breath, passion, love, rhythm. It is time wraped around itself and me moving forward into the future. It is a deep memory.

The Sun Don't Shine Here Like My Heart Shines.

The sun beats across the ocean,

it is miles away,

with the memories I left behind,

I can hear the delicate roar 

of winds,

sea shells sputtering,

time overlapped.

When the tide drifts,

I am drawn back

into the last sunrise.

The distance is calling.

There were places I let go,

strangers with stories,

shadows sullen on street corners,

fruit that dripped permanent nectar,

overdrawn trees ebbing under skies.

I met a bird man

in the lost city,

he told me never to miss 

what I have lost,

and to only

cherish what I have found.

His voice decays in my mind,

with the oceans,

and the cutting winds.

In my memory I am there.

It is only a dream,

the placid landscape

disappears.

Queen of Noble

Make of me a Queen.
Feed me mouths of violet-still-
exotic orchids.
I am no match
for all the
delicate
and noble
virgins
that dawn the morning.
They are rare
and pretty.
Oh, how pretty
the little ones are.
How meek and protected
the porcelain skin dolls are.
I am not one of such measure.
I am of mountains.
I am the rocks that feed the rivers.
I am the fury that rages the storm.
I hail thunder with heavy weight and deep resonance.
But my honor,
I am gentle too,
like the streams that
devour the banks.
I am useless like the tides.
I can run oceans through the earth.

love.

In the beginning love is simple. Your heart beats, everything splendid. The first memory of love has no pain, no hurt, no idea of anything less than ecstasy. You are in the moment of pure bliss. Remember when your heart moved and you felt so unimaginably decadent with joy? Those innocent to love experience pure love, because once we have in our mind the "idea" of love and build expectation, it is like a train bound for no where. It is in the presence, where there is no concept of what should be, but just the sheer elation of true union.