Certain Days I Place Dolls

Certain days I place dolls in dinner positions,
moving them in any position I want,
because certain dolls come with that ability,
to be moved by others.

They sit together
like perfect church goers,
never offending each other
with actions befitting their nice clothes.

But on occasion I am grasped
by my chest
and set into a child's playhouse
to sit and dine.

Sure, it seems entertaining,
but imagine never knowing
whether this day you will be
small and behaved

or big, like god above the clouds.
Staring with plastic eyes straight ahead
or running amuck with the world
at your finger tips.

She Died

She died

when she was twenty-two

Inside a room

made of plastic beads.

She slides the beads

along their strings

In order to form

windows that show

Oceans of steel and cotton linens.

At night shapes appear

in conglomerated shades

That look like faces

she knew at some point

With smiling lips.

The day the first string broke

felt like the rest.

Her feet looked like prisms

through clear color beads

Up to her pale ankles.

One, then another, they broke

like soldiers running from the enemy

Until they covered her completely.

Up, up, up;

she sank

Until her eyes could only see

a beadless room dirty in

Colors beyond any imaginable

bathing all corners and cracks.

The front door

now sitting at about her mid-section

Could no longer hold back any colors,

any beads.

They poured down the soupy grass

into the sea

And no girl remained.

Dark Horse Rider

A dark horse rider from the mountains
Came and took my baby, tore her away
Cocaine baby; pretty wedding.
"They didn't see the dark blue attaché."

Ice age mama from cold weather
Didn't see what she's going to be.
Liquor eyelash, sailor's daughter,
Forty and a fifth. Drink.
"Mary, don't you save my day."

A burning Cessna sinking slowly
But I see a fatter, fuller moon.
Dark white flashes. Shark bite cancer.
"Don't you see the end is coming soon?"

Tick -tock table. Lady lover.
A shattered, broken, busted, shattered display.
Dead receiver. Death receive me.
"You've got time, you've got lives to save."

Burning temple.
Rushing water.
Smoking ashes.

Rise, human-angel Cain.

Sometimes You Are a Wild West Warrior

Sometimes you are a Wild West warrior
Who drinks whiskey and wears black chaps
You ride steaming horses through cold water
On the cold mornings of hot days.

Other days you are Victorian,
Outfitted in pure silk dresses
That smell of tulips and fine social gatherings.

But today you are you

And I love it.

Running

I'm gonna steal a silver stallion
With not a mark upon his silky hide.
Teach him he can trust me like a brother,
One day we'll saddle up and ride.

And we're gonna ride, we're gonna ride,
Ride like the one eyed jack of diamonds with the devil close behind.
We're gonna ride.

I'm gonna find me a reckless woman,
Razor blades and dice in her eyes
Just a touch of sadness in her fingers,
Thunder and lightning in her thighs.

And we're gonna ride, we're gonna ride,
Ride like the one eyed jack of diamonds with the devil close behind.
We're gonna ride

I'm gonna chase the sky forever
With the woman and the stallion and the wind.
The sun is gonna burn into a cinder
Before we ever pass this way again.

And we're gonna ride, we're gonna ride,
Ride like the one eyed jack of diamonds with the devil close behind.
We're gonna ride

Los Angeles, 2005

"See you tomorrow." My hand shuts the door. My hand, so fragile and velvet. Beyond delicate. Toward the setting sun, Melrose Avenue really is beautiful in candle light. My face, as though it's holding it's breath, keeping time and all it moves, all it decays back for one last moment . It can only be a year or two before priorities force an exhale and the light goes out. The little girl I was will no longer exist, will no longer relate to who I am. She will survive in pictures the same way family pets from before my birth survive. I will no longer hold rights to swings and jump ropes. Kites and kittens gone. Left to me is, "She's getting old." Turn right at N Highland Ave. Beautiful women on the sidewalk, chatting and skating about. On their way to gatherings where bar tenders pour cups of privilege and shots of assurance. Drink up, I know how you need it. To be young and beautiful, to be given that. Turn left at Santa Monica Blvd. So many memories here. Thick, too thick. I loved his hands so much. Losing nothing through time. Strength, warmth, touch. Right at N Harper Ave. The light is red now. The sun long gone. Soon it will be night.

Spain, 1526

Cage

A Story of Confinement and Miracle

It is black, cracked. Solid. Its bars wrought and sappy with mold and sweat and all other forms of human disposal.
I am hung above the ground, swinging in the sweet breezes off the Ebro and the whimpers and prayers from grown men pleading to Allah. My head aches.
As my heart melts I slide between the bars. Head first I drip into the grout below, running as a river of human substance along, then out the aged walls. I come to rest and pool in a hoof print in the clay. I solidify and walk purposefully toward the water, lured by sweetness. My love, I am finally coming home.