Bliss junkie

Pere Lachaise

2009-05-05T18:43:00.000-07:00

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

2009-05-05T18:39:00.000-07:00

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.

Misinterpretation

2009-04-18T13:09:00.000-07:00

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

2009-04-18T13:00:00.000-07:00

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

2009-04-18T12:48:00.000-07:00

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

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.

April Showers brings snow

2009-04-05T17:29:00.000-07:00

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.

2009-04-03T10:55:00.000-07:00

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

-Hafiz

Search for Shells

2009-04-02T21:26:00.000-07:00

I forgot what I was watching

for when I stuck my feet

in the creek in Cape Cod.

I saw only gulls

even though I wished it was you.

They

flew in the birdlime night

away from people

who searched for answers and open-mouthed oysters.

The waves ebb over memories

and I find clues

in toenail shells

and cold sand

that remind me of when we danced in

attic dust.

Promises are different here.

In the ocean they fade like

seaweed near wild

roses that don't smell.

I tread in quick sand

sinking in the possibility

of remembering

when a breath wasn't a gasp

or when my trips to the

Cape were only about shell

necklaces

and the man in the lightening

tower who showed me the way.

The Sun's Dots

2009-04-02T21:09:00.000-07:00

I shoot my eye's in the sun's fire.

I remember the yellow high

of solar sky

but I do it anyways.

The shape shifts

and soaks my heart in tawny acid.

Pupils disappear into

a shadow of canary-colored

glow

that brands me blind.

The universe is black dust

with yellow polka dots.

The dots pop like bubble gum

and sprinkle the remains

on ebon lashes

like Indian saffron.

I see nothing

but tainted dots

through eyelids that forgot how

to see.

A desert fire ignites

in rays that reach

my chest instead

of sight.

Spheres of yellow craters

dissolve

like the scars that touch

skin.

I no longer walk in the sun

but am the light

that shines

like dots,

like stars,

like creases over flesh

I saw on my birthday.

The pull of heat

has turned me

and saved me from the

battle I never wanted to see.

An eyelash wrestles

with a tear

and I fall

into the light of dots

into the chrome coated abyss

I've been searching for, since

the nightlight of my youth.

I leave darkness

seeing at last

the yellow dots of light

I'd never thought I'd see.

The Curse of My Crush

2009-04-02T21:00:00.000-07:00

His lucid language

leaks like liquid.

It stains bones black

covering my innocence

with ash.

A light illuminates

an alphabet

of silver stars that spread across

my expanse.

Brightened only by a half-way

smile

there's no relief

no choice

no control.

My heart is yielded

by the hum of hell

and a guile

of gimmick and gold.

I eat it up like a starving

Ethiopian

enticed by the

smoking smell of amber,

I turn into

myself

into my own.

into a radioactive wreckage

that hides inside me.

Sleep becomes surrender,

and I meet the curse of my crush

realizing the ill-illusion of

a moonstruck moment.

Back in Boulder

2009-04-02T16:13:00.000-07:00

Outside my apartment, there's a stream that runs to

downtown, with the mountains in the back, like a movie drop that

I feel honored to be apart of.

The stream reminds me of gnomes and lilacs and I want to sip mint tea

on the grass.

My Tay Tay Ross is here visiting.

She's a force to be reckoned with. She is an explorer of the earth who nourishes me with her words and the strums of her mandolin. When it's not harnessed on her back, the jazzy instrument remains in a duck tapped holder, near her nap sack and running shoes. I admire this woman I grew up with with every part of my being. She understands me to my core and we have planned to some day own a eco-friendly farm house, with goats, organic products, and fresh kale. I'm looking forward to this simple lifestyle that I dream about in a community that follows their bliss and enjoys silence and simplicity.

I'm in a place in my life where I'm seeing my friends as divine parts of me. Although this may have come in sporadic times during my childhood, it is only now, in my 22nd year, that I see these people as divine goddesses, or gods that have come into my journey for a reason.

We listened to an old bearded man play harp and sing his lungs out downtown. Tay scribbled in her music theory journal and I soaked in the sun, wondering how someone with an opera-like voice ended up in torn sweatpants and cracked spectacles. His happiness was unaffected and a crowd of onlookers seemed entranced, as did I.

I ate an artichoke for dinner It reminded me of my childhood. It's an art eating that vegetable. Tay seemed amused watching me, unfold that olive green leaves.

I don't want her to leave.

I'm getting excited about this blog, and writing. It's been awhile.

The Storm That Wouldn't End

2009-04-02T16:04:00.000-07:00

A Belladonna plant

detangles in the cusp of summer wind.

The tap of green needles

clash against iron screens

coated in a strangers mistakes.

My wake has no invitation,

except that sleep is now a past

time

that hides near monsters

under my bed.

China dolls smile on shelves,

illuminated

by bolts of light

That grow in triangular angles.

They radiate in speeds

faster than bullets

or blinks that keep me awake.

The cloudless sky is dark

except for a light

that shapes itself

in my fear,

in the shadow of my legacy

that God has scorned upon the middle class.

Silence is lost in a tick tock

of a roaring firmament

that takes my grip with no intention

of ever letting go.