Hotel Bathroom [3-30-04]

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This bathroom buzzes with the sound of a fan whirring.
It’s blades loom and spin with a constant rhythm.
The dim, ultraviolet light on the ceiling,
Bleaches everything out into shades of cream and khaki.

I lay in a calm and murky pool enclosed in cold white walls.
Steam rises from its surface and fogs the room.
The water condensates in mirroring beads on the walls,
Making the tiny bathroom seem colorless and infinite.

I want to go home to my own aqua green bathtub,
Walls crawling with tiny square tiles of burnt umber and burgundy.
Where my silent meditation in the bath,
Is interrupted by your call on the telephone.

Witch/Poisonous [10.1.18]

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There are wolf spiders in my room,
and buzzards are constantly overhead.
The crows see me and signal warning,
and the cats always come crawling.

I burn herbs to ward off
the scent of loneliness.
I light candles to scare away
the darkness.

Autumn is here,
and everything is preparing to sleep.
I wear black to blend in with the night,
so my dreams can’t find me.

The moon is full
and my heart is empty.

These mushrooms are poisonous,
and I grow more hungry everyday.
Everything else is already ready,
for me to take a bite.

When you sing [7.11.19]

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When you sing, the smile lines around your mouth come out, curving along with the sharp lines of your face. Your eyes closed in passion and concentration, brow furrowed, your profile illuminated by the glow of the dashboard lights. A vein rises, running like a river from behind your ear, down your neck, and disappearing behind your collarbone. I trace my fingertips lightly along the skin of your neck while you sing, the muscles and tendons tight from your exhalations.

Your taste in music is intelligent. The taste of you is divine. The way you sing when no one else is around, makes me feel as though I’m witnessing a miracle, or something never seen by human eyes before. Your voice fills the cab of the truck and my ears and my heart.

I can’t look away from you, in the way I imagine, people stared up at saints as they were on their knees in awe.

Birthday in Mexico [4.25.07]

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9:30 am.

A tequila sunrise and 27 pesos later
I am sitting, balancing myself
On the plastic, graffiti-covered bus seat,
Listening to the cheesy Mexican radio
And feeling the eyes of those three men
On my body from two rows back.

We make our way
45 miles an hour
Down the narrow boulevard.
My drink splashing side to side
As the bus races around the bends
And slams its breaks on
Outside the busy gathering
Of dark skin and fruit stands.

Running Away [9.26.19]

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Everything I’ve ever loved has died,
or caught fire,
or both.

I cannot seem to keep things, or people;
always disappearing,
or being destroyed,
or running away.

I want love and only give destruction.
I want a good life yet have only been dealt in ruins.

My history;
a series of inverse cards on a table,
the taste of ashes in my mouth,
and the feel of blood in the hands.

Pain can always be found hidden within the pleasures,
and more oft than not,
I get great pleasure from the pain.

Some days I rule in Hell,
and some days I serve in Heaven,
but in neither duty am I ever completely satisfied.