s p i n e

flesh, like delicate lace
is not enough to conceal the rot beneath the marrow

we think everyone is fooled
we think that if we wash that skin until it peels from the bone
no one will notice the dirt pile

knowing that hiding only breeds more guilt
i remove my veil
i allow my nails to be inspected
and my teeth to be counted
pupils made black
it's cold

and then im pushed upright
spine bent into a hideous straight
god, this hurts
and its cold

comfort is a foe
in a pretty dress
with long-lashed eyes
and an overbite
and i miss her

she wanted me to be painted white
an idle artist
a master fog
a cloud, an enigmatical vapor

and then it happened
one day over tea
i looked at the figure in my chair and wished her dead.

so here i am
at the feet of the great one
asking to be stripped
begging to be opened
needing to be free

too long have i envied the sparrow
with its wingspan
and its glide
too long have i sat bleeding through the jacket of pride

cut it off
cut it off
cut it off

female pattern baldness: a lament

You seem to have lost something. Your hair? Your hair has fallen out and landed in a neatly swept pile onto this marble floor.

and you're waiting for someone to come along

to glue it back to your bare head.

you wait: in vain.

see her in mirrors, the girl: invented.

long, wavy hair and deep black eyes;

ribs protruding;

immortal lungs

indestructible liver

Twirling strands of waist length hair around bones that should be fingers,

swingin' hips to some Bowie song

waitin' for someone to take a picture.

go to bed at night: high on the drugs of narcissism;

naked and unashamed.

And in the morning, or perhaps the late afternoon, just as the sun is sinking: awake:

bald headed and soft bellied.

eyelids crusted together: matted from glue

throbbing legs & a hole in center of that forehead

go to the mirror

In the light, in the dark, in twelve hours, in four months....

Somehow doubled, or the space doubled.

existing in: paradise & purgatory

you win and then...

pay for the prize in portions of

blood

and

dignity

But these are just your thoughts

And they are not your fault

This is all because of him

Because nothing in his life is in order

He feels no shame, anxiety or embarrassment. He is who he is.

And he looks at you with longing

And you wither with him

and within him

evolving: inch-by-inch, pain-by-pain, into a single cell:

sharing air and temperature and bowel movements

terrified that one small piece could throw this symmetry off

ripping rotted skin into

lonely fragments

BEHAR

"All I do is act on my passions and they call it sin. All I do is tell the truth and they call me a hypocrite. All feel is pain and sorrow and they call it love. All I do is pour my heart out to empty pages and they call it poetry."

[Benito Behar]

STICKS & STONES & WIZARD BONES

woodSCREAM

The Sister's Rainboom: 

Easter in the east senefalerns woods 

black dots into divinations

into ectoplasm

even ghosts can be manipulated by my magic

we return to the woodlands

from where we came

and to where we will spend eternity

b r e a t h e

"Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.

Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, 

for I am gentle and humble in heart, 

and you will find rest for your souls. 

For my yoke is easy and my burden is light."

{matthew 11:28-30}

janowska

this fertile soil
where i stand
is
soaked in blood

permiating
every

tiny

inch
of my vulnerable flesh

like a wave
engulfed in ashes

and then,

whispers
which grow
louder
and louder
and louder
and LOUDER

until they are tortured screams
entering my head
refusing to leave

[it could have been me]

on the grounds of Janowska
bodies burned
buried alive
frozen in barrels: for sport

i find it hard to breath
or move
and harder still
to weep

but.
how pretty it all seems
the grassy knolls and rolling hills and quiet streams
the statue
of a mother and child: playing

[the irreverence]

i inhale slowly: once
it is all that i can manage
knowing that it will fill my lungs with the thousands

my new burden
a blanket
of horror

There is a light : on
in the home across this cobblestone street

I wonder if they hear the noises

the voices from the ground

or if they feel a strange sadness
lingering
a haunting cloud

I feel the bile rising
& cannot hold it in
these spirits cannot be contained

i dare not turn my back
& so i pace
slowly
backwards
though i know i can't escape

seconds//months//decades
will undoubtedly
pass

my hands will grow lines
my hair will grow
in all these shades of
grey or gold?
and i will feel
sorrow & joy
and others will think me happy

oblivious to
Janowska

this place i carry
eternally
in my bones

pale shadows

we stare into fragments of silverware

& car windows

& hand railings

always searching

to understand 

what the other sees

aching to know

why it is

that we are

still

alone

we paint ourselves

with mirky strokes

to appear 

(more)

human :: orthodox :: facile

we move these fingertips

& tie these bows

& pray that we can fake it

our days, which are languid and morose

remind us of our failure

to be 

(like them)

to fit

into shapes

or womanly roles

but when the moon is at its brightest

our eyes : grow 

wide and alive

taking up

most

of our faces

this, our truest of selves

is in danger

we, who breath best

on a cosmic plateau

and love 

the poisoned things

we shrink ourselves

and mask our souls

we should not frighten

the weak

but oh!

the day

when these human chains 

are severed 

and released

and our faces glow

with harmonious light

(as we were made to be)

oh, to be free

from ghosting

in caves

of normative code

lady white

whose purple blood

draws creatures from their grave

whose hands

throb

electric

cause rotten souls

to gleam

Fear not, oh infinite beauty

hidden from mortal men

For as you grow in glory

so he shall guide thy path

A garden locked

A secret stored

A treasure held by Kings

A pale shadow

Which earthly eyes

are far too blind to see

hair bows

Her brightness still glows in the corners of my bed sheets.

The brightness that I stole from her.

She was a swan: sparkling and pure, and I smudged it.

No, I did more than that. I burried her in soot and evil.

I needed a companion in this rotting grave.

The sun rises, but denies me it's presence.

I lay beside her cold body, intertwined, i try to make it go away.

Her pillow is covered with a brownish blood. This scares me.

I hope she is sleeping soundly.

I hope she will wake up in a few hours, like she always does, and then we will jump from our bed and order hundreds of dollars worth of room service from the hotel down the street, and they will bring it to us in silver trays on a wheely cart, and we'll charge it to our room...which is really just a big lie.

Yes. She will wake up and we will paint our toes and put birds in our hair and ride on balloons all over this wretched city...

We will make everyone so happy.

The prosecuting attourney reads motionless from his notebook:

At 7:42 on Tuesday, July 18, the 103rd precinct of the New York City Police Department recieved a call from Mr. John Fade's next door neighbor. The neighbor, Mrs. Loretta Davis, was in hysterics, but managed to report that Mr. Fade was seated on his front porch, braiding the hair of Beatrice Henry, who appeared to be, lifeless.

Mrs. Davis speaks slowly, staring all the while into the cloudy eyes of John Fade.

"He's been such a delight all these years.

So respectful and honest.

Never once did he cause a ruccous or nothin'.

I got no reason to make things up about dear John, I's just concerned...that's all."

"Mrs. Davis, tell me what you saw", demands the attourney

"Well, I's expecting visters -you see- so I looked outa my window 'round 8 o'clock to see if they's there....and I seen poor John on his stoop with that pretty thing in his arms, and he's justa singin' to her, and a laughin' bout something, and puttin braids and ribbons in her hair. She looked like a rag doll. I'd wager she'da weighed eighty pounds, poor thing. Anways, that Beatrice didn't breath or move for a whole hour. And that's when I realized that this wusn't no game. She'd done croaked and that poor John, well he'd lost it.

No further questions, your honor.

grave

crime wave

i suffer as she suffers

under each tiny grain of dirt

buried in a moss field

blinded from the cosmic portrait

of stars and moons and cloudrings

six feet or six miles

it matters not

lady white

lady cold

broken ribs

and eyes now worm holes

cruel poison

what has thou done

i thought you'd make me brighter

from Makalu

i saw a glow

and needed to be near

ma peau

ached to know

the secret of the spirit

oh soul, be at ease

tho you know not the language of forgotten things

almighty God

you give

you take

breathe light into the grave

cemeteries//symmetry // says he....

(

eyes open like terrified soldiers...

and i crack each knuckle:

one 

at 

a 

time

more days. slower movement. joint aches.

the sun sneaks up & i hold myself tighter

alone

at least it is peaceful?

cemetry & semitaries (my life spent in between)

i have sinned, my god, i have sinned

and i repay my debt

in the dirt

shoveling worms & weedy things

making homes for someones husband

or lover

or doorman

I, a true teller of my fortune

see only the end

in each break of dawn

& they say:

these things make men out of mice

& they tell me:

i'll be scared straight

into l i n e s

but...

i know lines

& i know holes

& geometrically

they

just

aren't

right

a hole 

is not a line

is not a box

so i should chose

or be chosen for

my mother used to yell so hard,

she'd shake.

and now I 

bound by my biology

mimick

her ways

and end up here: 

12 feet over

a six foot grave

staring into the future

of some poor, sad fella'

who never realized

that the only way to go

was in a burst of flames

The Wisdom of Insecurity

"Our feelings about the crawling world of the wasps' nest and the snake pit are feelings about hidden aspects of our own bodies and brains, and of all their potentialities for unfamiliar creeps and shivers, for unsightly disease and unimaginable pains" 

Alan Watts

my scars are permanent reminders:

if a man ever reverts to the sentence, "God told me to marry you" 

run away

Next season, the Pick-Up artist will be incorporating this method of manipulation into his lessons.

east hampton

reason #4,982 why NYC wins

Not Pictured:

The most wonderfully glorious Israeli soccer player

Suzanna harassing me to "go speak hebrew to him!!"

Me being a chicken

Me losing my one chance at true love

but at least i'm not sunburned

dark energy

apparently we are all giant bundles of energy

and our thoughts/feelings/actions produce vibrations and frequencies

which are expelled into the universe

which is a mirror or boomerang

that sends back to you that which you have sent flying into the cosmos

therefore

my thoughts, emotions, attitudes, negativity, and positivity

are rather important/powerful

So

In order to be happy

I must be happy

And in order to recieve

I must want...and then let go

I must see the goal

and release the longing

and be quiet

and be brave

and at peace

and all of this matters

because there are evidences of my existencee 24,000 light years away

yours too

unending frequencies

that will eventually find their way back to my front door

a moment of anthropological reflection on the eerie subculture of indie/psuedo-intellectual/hipster/christian/musician/boymen in our society

or as C.S. Lewis so accurately pinned them..."Men without Chests"

(Alternate Title: Why I should marry an NBA athlete instead of a musician)

1. ibooks are the new "i own my own home"

2. obscure text messages are the new poetry

3. drunken myspace messages have replaced carefully crafted love letters

4. "lets go on adventures" is the most popular pick up line in rotation.

5. Copeland songs still inspire the majority of their emotional/romantic feelings

6. Paying for dinner, or anything at all, occurs only on your birthday...if you're lucky. All other social expenses are fronted by the woman. And he probably feels no shame.

7. Interest include: bike riding, entourage, london, vintage things, chai, indians, vinyl records, Garden State...and probably jesus.

8. "i really just want to be a worship leader" USUALLY translates as "I really just want to be Chris Martin"

9. Life priorities are as follows:

-Music career

-Beer/Cigarettes 

-Someone to text-flirt with (or 4 someones)

-Mom/pet/sister/car/etc

(these will never change. ever. unless his band gets as big as coldplay...but maybe one of the songs will be about you?) 

so many faux rauxmantics

good luck.

ps. feel free to contribute... this list is potentially endless.

im just too hot to think because of global warming in the manhattan oven

baking soda paste

i don't like manatee green
but it's so so better than dirty white
and therefore it is a good color

and i am happy to see it

ok, sure, i guess that one day
i will walk into a room dressed in merrigold or birdsong
and think
whyyyy on earth did i pull THAT card

oh, i remember
it was better than the dirt

and it is
and i open my eyes some mornings and see past it
because everything else is so cemetrical
and tidy
and i thank tidy
for making manatee
less strange

and besides
it took so long to get here
to this manatee green
and i was so tired from the walking
up and down and up and down 6th avenue
that i just said,
hey, taxi, take me home and let's get this over with

but i'll have to spend another 874 minutes wiping off touches
from messy shadowy things
who probably put cigarettes in empty bottles on the floor
and leaned back in their kitchen chairs
and chewed with their mouths open
and didn't buy new sponges, ever.

and it will be 4 am
and i will be in a lump
on a bathroom floor
with a razor blade
scraping moldy things from around a bathtub
because some creature was too indie and important
to use a bath mat

which is the whole point

so

if you gathered me
all of my limbs
and cells
and touches

all of my thoughts
and motions
and screams

what
would
i
look
like

Red in Lieu of Green in Lieu of Blue

I allowed my eyes to blur over

sinking into the strokes

some so carefully planned

while others, formed in anger

or perhaps in bitter pain

canvas & oil & a life story

a gaggle of humans crowded about

taking pictures with the legends

groping for a taste of glory

and i stare at

as if my skull were empty

and my bones on display

movement disrupts 

so i freeze my lungs

in the presence of profound beauty

engulfed in the mind of the great creator

made known through the hands of man

{and i think}

oh, that my life would be as theirs

and that men would come from far and wide

to see the fruit of my labor

and the lines of my heart

oh, that I could move my hands

and tell you of the wonders that i've seen

in the presence of the almighty

so rapturous and entrancing

that your body, as mine, would be as stone

so that your ears and eyes and heart

could copulate

For blood and marrow

must transcend their rigid frame

and in merging with the divine 

will be opened to secrets of His heart.

As we are from him

And in him

And He in us

So are we able

to speak

and move 

And marvel as 

we breath

and beauty flows forth. 

14 B

images of home

comfort

familiarity

this is what i know:

borrowed bedrooms

meals in an air tight pack

one-use toothbrushes

and wake up calls

expect nothing

everything changes

all the time

expect nothing?

and what then?

wait?

for time and patience to nurture and rear a companion

or

perhaps

Gibran told it well

“It is wrong to think that love comes from long companionship and persevering courtship. 

Love is the offspring of spiritual affinity and unless that affinity is created in a moment, 

it will not be created for years or even generations”

blink

and watch the seed  bloom

could it be so simple?

love

a divine spark

erupting without warning

t a r t

once...twice...

again and again

as if the soul were seeds

unlock thyself

to a thousand men

in hopes that one will see

once...twice...

again and again

he'll hush your hopeful song

but offer him

your arms and legs

and "love" is yours 'til dawn

x

do they make a pill that will help you grow a spine?

willingly
and knowingly
i've watched my vertebrae disintegrate
inch by inch
into soft and pliable flesh

my malleability is grotesque

i look at myself in the mirror
bare faced
clean
and happy

and turn around
to step into the costume
that makes me "pretty"

and so sinks my heart
like a cannon in my chest

in anger, i look back at her

tonight i yelled
at the painted face
at the insecurity
at the pliable creature in my view
because she is better
and more precious
than he knows

approval is such a bitter chase

i need
i need
i need
to be wanted

not words
no, those mean nothing
not money
i hate it's power

i need him to say
and do

to make a way
to find a way
to care enough
to not

alas, the bottle
with her curves
and tempting glow
has won his wandering heart

and there i go again
trying to compete
with the poison

shame on me.

my frame, tall and pale
shaking from the blow
reduced to an inequitable race

most days
we don't feel like the gold that we are
and we let loneliness dig so deep
trading dignity
for a glance
or a word
or something
something that makes us feel loved.

And I imagine the great creator
perched on the wind
watching in grief
as his beautiful visions
with emerald eyes
and seraphic bones
are wilting and effete

made lowly
by blind men

"he doesn't love you, ya know"

It is beyond me how some humans develop so naturally into monsters.
He was probably 25, this guy, the one I'm going to tell you about

I was somewhere on the UES
hiding from the rain under a hotel awning.
Per usual, I was scrolling though my phone
trying to hopstop directions.
Just minding my own buisness...scrolling away.

First, a drunky walked by and made some real witty comment
something about me "going to the mall."
I guess cell phones= malls?
But who cares.
They don't even have malls in new york.

And then came the man of all men.
The one who probably banged a 'really hot chick' last week
or so he told his friends
The one who definatly has a porn collection
and displays it.
The one who's mother is exceedingly proud of him
because he got a "great job at a bank and lives in new york city."

So this guy, and his posse of bros walk past me.
And then he stops.
And he looks at me
And noticing that my space has been invaded
I look up from my phone,
And he looks me in the eyes
and in a tone void of feeling,
and in reference to my phone, says to me:

"He doesn't love you, ya know."

And walked away. laughing.

Now, had I been dialing a number or writing a text,
I might have taken this as some sort of divine sign.
Thankfully, I was just getting directions.

Even so...something about that cut me.

Skip ahead 5 hours.

I'm on the train home
and find myself sinking into what seems to be a depressed lull.
I started feeling alone.
Or feeling sorry for myself.
Or something like that.

And then I realized...
I'd said it over and over to myself

he doesn't love you
he doesn't love you
he doesn't love you

I had allowed this miserable excuse for man to effect my emotions.
I'd accepted it.
I'd believed that this hypothetical and imaginary person
that I wasn't even talking to
didn't love me.

And I wondered how many of us walk around
carrying on our backs the words of strangers
the lies that we've heard
and the wounds that they've brought.

I wonder how many people go through life
unaware that they've let some John Doe
decide how they feel or act or think.

So I guess if you're reading this,
here is my humble advice:

Scrape off the skin that has grown atop your heavenly frame
the skin that was woven by liars and fools and pains.
For you and I were made in His image
And He speaks of us as saints
You are the apple of his eye
You are the fire in his chest
You are his love, made tangible
His beauty, bottled into flesh

he loves me.

vapor filled apartments and lots of little games

what is man
if he is without truth

vapors
all around me
vapors

some smell like the morning dew
and others like some smut
and some of them will lure your heart
with the taunting stench of lust

like her
like him
like all of them

like fame
like high
like dust

it's morning
it's evening
it's dark as hell

and they tell themselves they've won

from this plateau shall all men fall
and crumble as they land
and bones like swords through shattered ribs
and loaded gun in hand

that pretty frame
is fading fast
like ice is to a flame
and once it rots
and feeds the worms
our souls will take our names.

so plot it out
you grain of sand
we vapors in the wind

and weigh yourself
in truth or love
and not in empty praise

for death comes swift
for every man
like thieves
and like your fame

and what is man
but rotting bones
if truth is not his claim.

x

she reads star magazine

and gives us "donations to charity in our name" for christmas.

what a grandmother

rulezzz

I got my first royalty check ever today
I like that they call them royalty checks
its like you're getting paid for being a purple blooded boss.

i'm not even sure what it's for...
I guess i've written enough songs,
one of them was bound to get loose.

new years resolution: get more of those

warhol would have loved lola

"Since people are going to be living longer and getting older, they'll just have to learn how to be babies longer."
Andy Warhol

one day, we'll have to explain this to our kids

because Oscar Wilde is always right...

"Man is least himself when he talks in his own person. Give him a mask, and he will tell you the truth."

luggage

one hour til light
and the plauge of restlessness is riding my back

an empty suitcase sits in the corner of my room
taunting me
begging me to take it somewhere else
reminding me of the colors that we have seen together



and the smells
and the tears
and the mayhem.

mud &
sirens &
bombs &
tramps&
blood &
trash &
orphans &
mountains &
ruins &
wonders
oh the wonders


what a life
what a life
what a life

a suitcase for a lover
and jet lag for a wife


so i'll be damned
if i'm here tomorrow
if i awake, again, in these sheets

for I've a home
unlike any other
that i've built upon the wind.

and when the moon is high
and the air gets cold
i weep from bittersweet

and my bones
they ache
beneath my chest
for the dismal jerusalem streets.

so safe i am
but so undone
and my legs are growing numb

i'd take that beating
a hundred times
to wake up to a virgin dawn.

x