The Grass is Black/The Air is Pink


feel me/read me/follow me

Tea and Doppelgangers

“I don’t like that one,
there…You see…”

I could’nt see
we were in her apartment
on a Thursday evening
I came over for tea
and a little conversation

“She’s ugly,not too nice
to me…You see?”

Why I followed her
into the bathroom,
I’m not sure
but I still had no clue
who was upsetting her so
much so
that we left our Earl Grey
in the other room, to get

“I’m sorry…but who are
you talking about? There’s
only me and you…”

My ignorance soon faded
to what was there all along-
our doppelgangers,just as alive
as we were
All that time,they had been
sitting right next to us
The only difference was we were obviously in reality with our jeans,jewelry,colored tops and the glow from our skin
they were obviously somewhere else with their ill lash-less eyes,bright-white clothing and dry,pale,pasty skin

“Yes,I can see them now…
but,can they see us?”
“Of course,can’t you hear
what they’re saying?!?!”

I could’nt hear anything
but my own heartbeat
I could’nt even see their
lips moving
As a matter of fact,
they we’re still as statues,

written: June 15, 2010

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Dusk by Charles Baudelaire

Sweet evening comes,friend of the criminal,
Like an accomplice with a light footfall;
The sky shuts itself as though a tomb,
And man turns beast within his restless room.

O evening,night,so wished for by the one
Whose honest,weary arms can say: We’ve done
Our work today!-The night will bring relief
To spirits who consume themselves with grief,
The scholar who is bowed with heavy head,
The broken worker falling into
Meanwhile,corrupting demons of the air
Slowly wake up like men of great affairs,
And,flying,bump our shutters and our eaves.
Against the glimmerings teased by the breeze
Old Prostitution blazes in the streets;
She opens out her nest-of-ants retreat;
Everywhere she clears the secret routes,
A stealthy farce preparing for a coup;
She moves within this city mad of mud,
A Worm who steals from man his daily food.
One hears the hissing kitchens close at hand.
The tables at the inns where gamesmen sport
Are full of swindlers,sluts,and all their sort.
Robbers who show no pity to their prey
Get ready for their nightly work-a-day
Of cracking safes and deftly forcing doors,
To live a few days more and dress their whores.

Collect yourself,my soul,in this grave time,
And shut out all this clamour from the slime.
This the time of sick men’s sharpest pain!
Black night will grab their throats;they cry in vain,

And finish out their fate in common grave;
The hospital is filled with gasps. They have
No further need to think of evenings spent
At fireside-the fragrant soup, the friend.

But most of them have never known the call
Of friendly hearth,have never lived at all!

(One of my favorite poems by one of my favorite poets)

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Chain Letter

under the influence
of sex…
under the influence
of love…
under the influence
of hatred…
under the influence
of subliminal
under the influence
of hunger…
under the influence
of anger…
under the influence
of obsession…
under the influence
of literature…
under the influence
of poetry…
under the influence
of life…
under the influence
of death…

written: November 4, 2007

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Poems, Rain by Charlotte Gardelle

Oh aimiable rain
Washer of trees
and roofs
who has prepared them
the pink ray
of evening

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Sonnet III by Pablo Neruda

Bitter love, a violet with its
of thorns in a thicket of spiky passions,
spear of sorrow, carolla of rage:
how did you come
to conquer my soul? What ‘via
dolora’ brought you?

Why did you pour your tender fire
so quickly, over my life’s cool
Who pointed the way to you? What flower,
what rock, what smoke showed you where I live?

Because the earth shook-it did-,that awful night;
then down filled all the goblets
with it’s wine;
the heavenly sun declared itself;

While inside, a ferocious love wound around
and around me -till it pierced me
with its thorns, its sword,
slashing a seared road through my heart.

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The water is boiling
so you can have tea now
I’m far away
so you can undress now
I’ve turned off the music
so that you can read now
The lights are off
so we can touch now
I’m done with my cigarette
so we can kiss now…

I’ve stopped talking
so you can pay attention now
I’m done cleaning
so you can make a mess now
I’ve stopped crying
so you can love me now
I’ve stopped talking
so you can read this poem now…

written:July 11,2009

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Lethe, after H.D. by Anne Waldman

Nor child painted sick
nor other rocking motion
nor love’s cool anger in pretty room
nor woman’s lonely station
nor cold winter
maturest fears
button up! button up!
nor New York City’s toys
Nor Edwin Denby to disagree
Nor wealth, fame, mother
to blanket me
Never kisses penetrate
the grieving morrow
“You sleep through the night
but for this”:
sweet widow pills
tiny hexagonal portals
to oblivion

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Greed Revisited

I want the texture of your tongue
I want the taste of your mouth
I want the kissed of your lips
I want the warmth of your body
I want the steps of your feet
I want the touch of your hands
I want you

I want the thoughts of your head
I want the juice of your brain
I want to eat the people that you know
I want to know the messages of your letters and the secrets of your notes
I want the music that you hear
I want the things that you see
I want the the visions of your dreams
I want you

I want to steal the loves of your life
I want to hide the intimate moments that you share with your family
I want to drink the dregs of your morning coffee and afternoon tea
Oh, I want you

I want to read the books that you read
I want to see the beauty and wonder in your eyes when you walk these new Chicago streets
Oh, I want you to want me
with this same intense feeling….

written: November 10-11,2009

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A Sorry Tale

the fruit is’nt ripe enough
to be eaten
so you’ll be hungry for longer
the candles have been blown out by the summer breeze
so you’ll have to finish your book in the morning

he could’nt find the correct wine
so you two will just have to go to sleep
instead of staying up to drink into the wee hours of the night
he lost the lighter, so you won’t be
able to smoke; you’ll have to read him your shitty poems

you’ve fucked up, said too much and now your heart belongs to him
you should’ve kept your eyes open when you two kissed, now he knows the truth about you
you sent him too many love notes and now he’ll only use you

they’ve broken the snow globe, so there will be no lovely winter days for you this year
they did not allow the incense to burn all the way through, so only one room
smells like roses: the bedroom
they’ve allowed the children to shatter the mirror, so you can’t watch yourselves as you make love

he did’nt kiss your forehead Wednesday morning, so that evening you missed your train on the el
he did’nt hold you in you sleep,
you had a backache by noon
he did’nt bring you coffee, like
usually, at midnight so you woke up late many hours later

she did’nt reassure him that her body was his to keep,so he called off work that day and read Shakespeare sonnets
she forgot to buy his orange juice, so he was forced to drink the nasty coffee that only tasted good off of her lips

Written: April 5, 2010

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To My Muse by Anna Akhmatova

My sister Muse peered into my face;
Her eyes were clear and bright shining.
And she took back the ring of pure gold-
Spring’s first gift thereby reclaiming.

Muse, see how happy everyone is-
Young girls and women and widows.
Better to suffer and die on the rack
Rather than here in these shackles.

I know I can’t know what’s going to be;
Petals from daisies won’t clue us.
And we all have to experience pain
That love on this earth brings us.

I burn a light in my window till dawn,
and there is no one I’m missing.
But I don’t want, I don’t want to know how
Another is kissed or is kissing.
Mirrors tomorrow will laughingly say:
‘Your eyes are not clear and bright, dear…’
I’ll answer softly, ‘She took away God’s gift I prized dear’.

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