The Painter

infinite stretch
I reach
 rub green through   Nature
trees on my
    color of our lungs
on rainy afternoons
    a lush world
blooms slow
like a    Lotus
I wait
     planet of mud
 hands     outstretched
      to the blue
it pours
are greener
     lost nights
I write
     places with
pumpkin purple
  blood orange
      smeared ink
I erase
  blood blue
  on      page
        when the pen
   I bleed     out


Stream of Consciousness (unedited) 

everything else blurs away like white static from televisions when i was growing up and september 11th happened and my mother’s face and the gray, so much gray. how did i find her after so many scenes and rituals and deep breaths? i found her standing right across from me at the wake, there were flowers swallowing up the room i was there, reading about nanny and everyone had tears in their eyes because it was so well written and beautiful and i missed her more than ever when i read about my sicilian grandmother, ancestor who shared my blue blue veins. i’ve been writing so much about my mother and the seasons and change, that i think real change is floating away from me before my very eyes and it’s scary, as scary as the gray, as the blue. soon it’ll be mother’s day again this year and i will think about how alive she is on paper but invisible in reality and wonder if she will read my book about her the day it gets published or will it sit on her kitchen counter while she dusts around it? 
you are rainbow, all the dim colors of night and i am still here waiting for woman with red lipped smiles and pointed eyebrows i watched you tweeze them in the mirror so many times behind but you looked away glass and pantyhose sheer black your perm looked at me with wide eyes and its curls puffed up at me almost like a cat who’s ready to attack. i ran away and never came back but you returned night after night in the glass mirror.

Ink and Fire

There’s a poet using the same words as me. Stars are the fireworks that get us going. My predecessors scribble with my hands and paper is on fire. Black ink only. We read ourselves in the reflection. Telepathy. The ancestors speak to me through poetry and love. Whisper. Hear them through the trees. I am the line between two poets, connecting in the midnight sky. We weave together the words in which this life is written. The page is hot and angry. It weeps for me. I wipe tears and ink smudges into oblivion. What did it say? It glimmers into nothing like the stars. My mind forgets where it came from.

At night, hands remember when they grab the pen. I write in flames again.

The Last Time

your hair blew curls
into the wind
when you looked
with chestnut eyes
straight into mine
and lied

i knew the lines
in your face
moved with mine
you fooled us both
i cut the ties

cared about your life
more than mine
but you always had

Red Goo


lies within       me
red light bulbs burn hot
tomato sauce that bubbles
on stove
my mother’s fiery eyes
I clean the kitchen every night
but it
with crumbs in between cracks of floor
sticking to
of feet
               why bother
                                                             it doesn’t
when it just is never clean
Consistency is key
I am Power
   burning through blue veins
       burning through the stove
 when the        grill pan                     smokes
I am Ice
  like my mother’s stare
     like my feet on the tile
  like snow

the               sh
  ground          ak
you spit butterflies,

a rumble in my stomach
reverberates in
b l o s s o m i n g   flowers.
sunlight, sweetness,
fruit of my          intestines.

ee  of your      lips
    basking in wet dew.
foggy morning-
        I see       you.
I breathe     your      i                  b
                           ra                      ow    
and burst
into     bright  light.



He had skeletons in his closet;
I knew how to set them free.
We watch the bones turn to ash
in the October wind.

My blue Bic lighter flicks
and the composition paper burns
down by the water,
down into the earth.

Black ink dances in dust.
it smells like death.
it smells like life.
Breathe a new beginning.

Every wrong he’s done,
and all the wrong done to him
floats into the atmosphere.
Burning, dissipating, crumbling,
resurrecting into gray clouds.

The bones wail and mourn.
The closet is empty.
I wouldn’t let him keep the urn
even if he wanted to.

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