Tuesday, May 5, 2009

Pere Lachaise



I bought grapes and
yellow dates
on Wednesdays.
At half past three I'd meet
Jim Morrison.
For four months
I'd pass Gertrude Stein
and Oscar Wilde
underneath
black marble and French saints.
147 communards
are hush
throughout the cemeteries
labyrinth
like bats that hang in silence.
School children
play I spy
as I sneak through
stone hatchways
and potted wildflowers.
Their owl-like gazes
leap past me
to angels gilded in green
crag.
Morrison meets 
me in the sixth division
with star-eyed
beatniks
burning lighter fuel.
They toss half-burned
cigarettes
over a square
grave that's branded in 
Greek.
"KATA TON AIMONA EAYTOY"
Is plated beneath
James Douglas Morrison.
"True to His Own Spirit"
decodes itself
in black ash
near visitors who
lament,
smoke,
and snap photographs.
Empty whiskey,
plastic daisies,
Twinkies,
dusted concert stubs,
cover his catacomb
like the warmth
he couldn't refuse.

Space Near Suburbia

Piles of space junk fall
like snowflakes
or astronauts that bounce like rubber balls
on empty streets.

I watch the mailman
dressed in grey, 
who matches the sky,
and hands bills 
to John Q in a red tie.

he stuffs envelopes
into dark homes
like sour milk in a faulty refrigerator
that has forgotten how to keep
chop meat red.

Picket fences move
when the seasons change
through tall grass 
that hides pesticides
that crawl like spiders.

Neighbors
play fetch with my dog that won't bark
but stares at the mailman
and drools liquid
grass.

Lambent-edged globes move around houses
while families
sip ice-tea
in clouds that look
like stuffed animals.

The man in grey moves
as he enters dead-ends without
an intention.

I wait for a letter 
with my name
in the corner,
carried by the man
I'll never know.

Saturday, April 18, 2009

Misinterpretation

You traveled from train
near thread-like alleys
that brought us
hand in hand
into churches
that smelled of
open-eyed trout.

It wasn't our country
but words didn't
keeps us out
of streets
and beats of a
Congolese whisper throw us into
the blackout of day.

I walk in moth-light 
listening to you
speak French
better 
than me, 
under hanging fishnets
that droop like
weeping willows.

We drink red beer
that foams
seduces
me into sheets of rain
under apartments
owned by French lovers
who toast Savignon Blanc
when the sun sets.

Butterflies 
are vacant
in corner dust
under a backpack
that holds your past.

Only your slang is familar
but I'll never
be bi-lingual
beneath the
Eiffel Tower
or the bend of your arms that tie me
into your own translation.

"Branque"
"Baiser"
"Bourrer"
"Deconner"

It's jargon,
street talk
which builds
in clouds
around fish sellers
and runway models gowned
in grey leather
and smoke.

They know the sounds
that Je ne comprends pas
but which you use to order me
cappuccino
in a country that will never be ours. 

Republique


Republique metro stop
never leaves the 11th arrondissement.
It never doesn't smell
like chain smokers,
or sliced ham
or rush hour.

The haulage of subway cars
forces me to hold hands
with unfamiliar visitors
in a space filled 
with dripping 
umbrellas.


Tonight a Frenchman doesn't wear a black coat
behind me.
He's dressed in quilted
rainbows and sings Bob Marley.

He reminds me 
my teeth loose color
when I drink Merlot
and that the crescent moon
forms a spotless heart.

Emotionless women near me
don't need reminders.
They follow me up 80 steps
to men selling
cooked chestnuts in shopping carts.

Green sparks peel from their hands 
and we pass the smell
of edible nuts rolling
in yesterdays newspaper.

The women smoke cigarettes
as long as their legs
and 
I follow behind the
emblem of fume,
leading all of us home.

The Climb


I climb the mountain's shell
in a rush of air
like before
birth
and after
heartbreak.

My bedroom 
window 
pulled me 
through 
untouched glass
to branches that curl white,organic calligraphy.

Rocks follow me
like the Peregrine Falcon
follows the wind.

I climb higher
above the footprint
of doormats
lovers,
and circular keyholes
I forgot to lock.

A sky that woke me in my sleep,
now canopies
me 
while I wake 
and walk.

Tree barks are
splotched orange
by Ladybird Beetles
who bleed their shells into
the crust of timbers.
They leave their
remains
in the lining of 
Ponderosa Pine
staining their death
and the sun
Titian. 

I climb 
with ash-colored minerals
that trail under steps like
dogs at my heels,
grey and black
like leftover lava,
or animal droppings
that hardened overnight.

I climb 
to leave the remote-controlled
fireplace,
the vents that 
seep dirty,
the weedless garden
that grows
in straight lines.

I climb 
to disappear
and
follow the sun
that speaks in silence,
falls 
alone. 

Sunday, April 5, 2009

April Showers brings snow

Nature laughs at us all the time. It has a better sense of humor than my funniest friend, and this month it trumps him once again. 

The snow is falling in large white squares like a chess board falling to pieces from the sky. Snow is no longer beautiful to me. I don't want to sit by the fire and drink hot coca. I don't want to knit thick wool socks and snuggle up on my purple couch and watch old movies, where I obsess on how stunning Audrey Hepburn is.

 I WANT SPRING! I want flowers that poke out from the raw earth and make my heart jump and feel that sense of nostalgic energy pulling me home. I've never been a patient person and waiting for warm weather is testing every part of me. April reminds me of my childhood, my mom, the purple-pink blossoms that grew from that huge ass tree at MSAE, summer stars in IA, Blue Moons ( the beer and the one in the sky), swimming, tans, wild highs, coconut popsicles. I don't want to grow up, if you hadn't already noticed.
Is it a requirement? Can I transcend this tradition?

This month I'm experience growing pains for the first time in my life. Maybe it's because the fucking groundhog won't wake the hell up! 
 Growing pains are the gap between understanding yourself, your future, and your mind and heart. Sometimes I can't sleep because of these pains and then I remember that it's normal. When I think something is normal, I tend to yield anxiety for a few hours and continue getting shut-eye.
I think enlightenment is a more simplistic state of being than people make it seem to be. In my eyes, enlightenment is when there's no separation between heart and mind, and all that exists is contentment which in turn is bliss. But the kind of bliss, that is silent, unassuming and can be invisible if it chooses. I've decided that if Spring chooses to come in the next week, this time for real, I will be a good girl. I won't eat as much chocolate. I'll pass on that second beer, I really shouldn't have ordered anyways. I'll actually do my HW instead of chatting with my friends online. I'll make coffee for my sister in the morning, maybe if a few times a week....if only that damn snow would stay in the sky and make those clouds more white and leave us on the ground to be warm.

Friday, April 3, 2009

"Time is a factory where everyone slaves away, earning enough love to break their own chains."

-Hafiz