Left Me.

He left me like a warthog leaves a sunrise
He left me in the middle of the purple night
He left me like flowers growing
He left me
He left me
Still I see him standing near the sea shore,
Smiling at the open sky
He left me unattended
He left me without my purse and nakedness

Again.

He told me he didn’t want to see me again;
that that was the end of our romance.
Out of place in the restaurant,
I began to cry-the words silently rolled down my cheeks.
Everything was falling apart, including my dress.
I accidently tore it on the way inside the restaurant,
my knee caps showing.  Anyway, he left me for a girl
I didn’t like.  I pray  he will return to me.
We are meant to be together.
The flowers he gave me for last Valentine’s Day
are still sitting on my dresser in my bedroom.
I can’t stand crying in public.
I gave up everything for us to be together,
it wasn’t worth it now, I see it now,
standing in front of me like a tidal wave
climbing up into the burnt brown sky.
His eyes are brown.
He gets up, throws money on the table, and leaves,
with me crying after him-”Don’t go.”

I move to the ocean to get away from memories
of him-he left his clothes there, in our old apartment, and I picture him
wandering around naked somewhere, and my eyes smile a bit.
Not too much.  This is what it feels like to have a heart broken-
I never had one before, this is my first time.
I capture the image of him in my mind,
the way his hair wove about his head,
the way he smiled, and his laughter that was like the trill of a bird.
 I seek him in my mind.
This is what I seek.

Time and Song, etc.

In the steel mines, the birds are singing with upturned throats-
They see the importance of being important.

I follow my heart with a recorder, life bangs on steel drums.
What I said was, “I can’t take the heat,” to the ballpark manager

And everyone else was fitted for a dress-to me, everything was simple
And workable.  I couldn’t place my agony today.  Where was I?

Time flies by.  Birds make time sing a double note.
I can’t find myself in a mirror, these words I hold dear to me.

With every living thing, I sing a simple song.  My work here is done.
I move on.  With a ratio.  Time stands still.  Everything is workable,

Plus food is needed for the stomach-
I heart today and yesterday-

I know no bounds.  What did I do?  To make time go more slowly.
What did I do to make you go away.  My heart aches for a sticky bun.

I wish I were far from here, a place where I could sing my all,
A place where time is entwined in my own hands.

The Park

Walking in the park on a lazy day afternoon-
Ducks swim in the pond, and I watch them carefully,
To make sure they don’t drown.  Willows whisper
To me excitedly-
I can’t stand them!  They annoy me!  The park is bright
With sunshine,
And I smell honeysuckle on each side of the sidewalk.
The honeysuckle makes me think of home,
For my mother used to grow them in her yard.
Honeysuckles rule the flowers, they are the queen of
The roses and daisies.  It’s the poet in me, I guess,
To know the names of flowers in my head-
I watch them move back and forth in the breeze,
Then I watch the ducks again, the tiniest one makes
Me think “Awww, how cute,” and I smile prettily.

The River.

The clouds come in from the west-it is bitterly cold.
The wolf is laying in his den; icy coldness made from silk
Pours from his nostrils.  The sun is icy, too.  Everything is covered
In ice.  The wolf’s stomach growls.  He wants some food.  He gets up,
And goes for the hunt-a lone rabbit nestled between a tree and a blade
Of grass is his target.  The rabbit sees and bounds into the forest.  The forest
Is practically empty, except for houses on either side.  No one is home,
But they, too, know about the wolf.  Who knows about the wolf?  It asks itself.
Everyone!  That’s why there are so few of them left.  The wolf goes about,
Looking for food.  It sees a river.  What is a river?  Rivers are wide,
And haunt humans.  Humans know nothing but fear.  The joy is in the fear.
The wolf dunks his paw into the river, trying to catch a fish-he tries again,
And again.  His stomach growls.  The wolf comes in threes, and the river
Comes in threes, over and over again, climbing higher into the sky,
The trees see everything, but the wind does not..

In Paris

The night falls on me mercilessly.
My eyes open and close like shades.
I went to the harbor and watched the boats
come in-there are lights flickering
In the windows of the boats.
I turned my eyes away.
It’s hard to watch this all day.
I start walking, my head bent forward,
and the wind flicks my hair every which way.
There are the sounds of boats on the harbor.
Some boats are big; others are small
As cars.  The little boats speed along like nobody’s business.
I walk down the street,
People scream my name-now, how would they know that,
I think to myself, they couldn’t
Know my name, for certain-I don’t know any
of these people!  I am an American, not
French, not European.  In the back of my mind,
I sense danger-the danger of an oncoming
Storm.  The storm of my youth.
Words come from my lips:  “I need to eat.”
So I go into a little café on the end of
Bridge Road.  Bridge Road has a lot of shops.

What the Eagle

The eagle soars with its limbs-I have not been outside today.
The hearts of dreams that I play, are withered in shades of gray.
Everyone says I should be a serpent, quick and loud-
But all I am is a toad.

Where are all the people, I ask.
I found my nerves at last.

I shoulder fortune like a lamb,
For lunch I want a ham.

I’m not an eagle, but I take flight.
In the dark of the bitter, and cold, night.

The snow is falling and the eagle is at rest-
Snow falls upon his nest.

To the middle, to the middle

Of it all.  He catches me while I fall.  

I can’t find myself
Behind the tree-delicious cakes in a cake shop, I have fallen
In love with baking.  

The old mother tells me she has a book of cakes,

And do I want to look at them.  

I said no, I shouldn’t be thinking 
about
Cakes at this time of night, or day, 

I should say, it’s only 4pm.  I have fallen
Off a cliff into an abyss, the abyss is in my garage, 

wrapped in tar paper.
Sometimes I watch tv at night.  

There’s nothing on.  
So I make up stories to myself,
That sound just about right.  

The middle is not about right.  It’s the middle, I said!
The middle!

I stare straight at the sun.  I’m not the only one.  

The Street, the Street

Where am I?  Why am I here?  My words are crystal clear.
The cowboy walks with his head held high.  I couldn’t find a way down
The dark street.

A man follows behind me, quickly-where can I go?
I am lost on the hill below.
Take me to a different place that is far from here,
Where I can be safe from harm.  Take me to a place that is forever warm.
The old man wants icecream.
His name is Seth.  Seth, call to me,
my beloved

Brother, call to me in the depths of the
night, night as dark as sin.  I might win.
I have no idea, nothing to contemplate.
Where did reason run off to?  I like to run
With the wind blowing my hair back.
It’s simple as this:  I have a boat,
I offered my maiden fair to ride it with me,
she said no,

she was afraid of the wind
And dogs.  There are no dogs in the water, I whisper to her.
There are no dogs anywhere!
My shout was lost in the wind.  The sun glares down.
I can’t see past my forehead,
I can’t see for anything.
I walk away from the boat and go down town.

The Key

The key was in my hand,
I walked through town-
My mind was thrown like a rubber band,
I have called my own.

Dreams are plenty here on earth,
Yet I have seen it for myself,
There goes a flower giving birth,
I hope his baby is in good health.

Old lady, what do you plead,
Your skirt hangs around your knees.
You’re the only one who can lead,
A convention just like these.

Take me higher than a bird,
This place is not for me.
I speak in hushed voices for the word,
I wish to God I were free.

Don’t drown in doubt,
We need to be paying attention now.
I know you can go without,
Another forbidden show.

The Corridor

The corridor was brown and thin,
This was the mess I was in-
Taken by so many glares,
My foot hit the stairs.

The dark was in the dark,
I could barely see-
My lighter lit a single spark,
And it was in front of me.

Take me outside, where it was warm,
The sun is like a hearth.
I have seen through the storm,
I have seen a mother give birth.

Tell me words that are spoken,
The bird has been flying east-
The vase I have broken,
The work was not my best.

The Eyes, Stares

The eye stares at me from a great abyss.

It is neither thin nor glowing.
In time, the eye will stop staring, but for now it is staring-straight at me.

The strange shadows of oneness have come back.  There is nothing that I lack.
Take me outside, and bring yourself into myself like a bitter rose rising from

The ashes.  I am rising.  I find myself glaring back at people.  I don’t like people

As much as animals.  Animals are properly trained-humans are not.  I have begun

My training in the springtime-there’s nothing else for me to do.  I am learning kung fu.

Japan is the place where I have made my home.  I love their food, their music,
And their dance.

What can I show you that won’t make you bothered by me?  What can I show you that will
Bend myself backwards outside of war?  I have helped myself by becoming something other
Than myself, I have become someone else’s property.  There is a sign in my yard, saying
For Smalls.”  I would, but I can’t.  It’s dinnertime anad I’m hungry.  Make me dinner.

Night comes, and I am sleepy.  People target me.  The hole keeps getting bigger, and bigger.
Light flashes in my vision.  I try to sleep.  Sleep will not come.  Help me dream.
In the morning, I take a ride on the train and return back home.

Bleed Me Dry

In London, I found myself huddled in the rain, wishing I were somewhere else-
A dog barks in someone’s yard, and I looked at him, all wide-eyed and wondering.
The cold spread through my body.  My coat was soaked wet,
My hair was matted.

I didn’t know where my home was, or where I was going.  The war had been going on for hours,
And the bitter cold left me shivering-in fear or coldness, I wonder if it’s both.  Time will tell.

Yes, time.  I have learned about time as a little child, sitting on my grandfather’s lap.  He said
I shouldn’t be there, I should be with my family in this time of war-time is a funny thing,
All numbers and circles.  Yes.  Time is hidden inside of me, like a small bird trying to break free.
I don’t understand this parable.  I don’t understand anything unless it is told by my grandfather,
I am but a child, trying to break free.  I never knew anything about metaphors,
I never knew anything about no words.

Sometimes the spectacles of life frighten me like a forbidden object trapped in the sand.  The sand of time.
There’s time again, I can’t find time anymore.  It washed away in the ocean, where the sharks are,
Sharks I am afraid of, just like time and all other things.  Where do I belong?  I don’t know, it hurts
To think about it.  It’s nothing to be ashamed of.  It’s nothing to fear.  I am poor.  The poorness continues
To bleed me dry.  I am going to find a warm place.

Staring, Wrote.

The staring of the stranger is what I wrote about a winter morning.
Winter mornings are cold and bitter.  The sea of time stands open.
I am the hash of secrets; the secrets of all secrets.  I am torn between two worlds-
The worlds that drip like unforgotten eyes in the middle of the sea of ghosts.
I don’t remember ghosts.  I remember my mother, like a great ship on the sea.
I remember things shouldn’t come between me and the riddles…me and the rocking
Boat.  A boat is not a smile, I learned in school-I also learned I am nothing but a lamp
Post, a dragon who isn’t remembering anything but herself.  I am not myself.  I am the
Dream within the dream.  Shadows rise out of nothing and the dreaming is warranted.
I sweep the hair out of my eyes and gaze at the stillness around me, in the classroom-
My teacher is sweeping words across a chalkboard, and somewhere far away a child sneezes, in some other classroom like in Jamaica or Spain or Guam and I think to myself
What has become my life and why am I here, the great question, the question of all questions, and the thought of my mother comes into my mind and she is like the stillness of autumn, or like I said before, a ship rising out of the water-and then there are the actors
And they are better than me and there are actors who are taller than me and try to scream obscene words in my ear, above all else, the sound of the cars on the street, and lamps shutting on and off, and my screams ripping through the ear and no one can hear me-
No one will see. 
The staring of strangers exhausts me.  I am bothered by the cold.

Mouth.

The planet is an open mouth.
It yawns and rests-shaking and shivering in the cold.
Your life is not my life.  Your life is a life that is begone,
And not forgotten-your life is written in the pages of the unforeseen,
The computers that do not compute anything but of mice and men.
People are shocked by the sea of faces that span out before us by
Thousands of flowers opening, yawning-you think you know, but you were
One of the first, the first of thousands, of millions that spread before us like
Unforgotten eyes, the eyes of the untold.  I am not who I am.
My mother is a bittersweet taste in the eyes of sight, and the world is like me-
I am trapped in the world that is cold and dark, it is like a cage of nothing.
Where is the old world?  Why are people staring, glaring at me-like the night I can’t see. 
I am shadowy river, I am the dim and the dark and the clouds.  Clouds scurry
Behind me, before me.  My father is not here-he was never here, he was a shadow of himself, a glimmering cloud. 
The dream was something else that glimmers in the dark.  You don’t know that these trees
Are bending,
You don’t know that eyes are staring, like dim forgotten eyes that are breathing and distant as time is distant in this nothingness that I am or what I shall be.  The wind is not my breath; the eyes that will not see.
I am the dark, and the waves are bending…
My mother does not share the same sentiment, and she is lost in the shadow of herself,
Lost as if the tides are lost. 
This is not my life.   

Between the Flame.

Between the sand and sea and sky,
I take the eve and make them dry-
I try to find the past and fame,
And put them out to sea again.
In my heart, and in my eyes,
I make them take me by surprise.
And all the shadows that turn me bare,
Are forgotten for the want and wear-

In the dark, and in the eyes,
My fire shines upon surprise.
From where I am, and where I’ll be,
The night is here and we are free. 

From all the world, and back again,
The leaves turn colors and then they bend-
I don’t know when or where I am,
As I walk this forgotten land-

The trees are bare, the eve is cold,
And in your eyes we are not old,
In this land when we are free,
From where I am, and where I’ll be. 
I’ll sit upon a rock and gaze at sea. 

Walking in Space.

We are not whirling through space. We are space trapped inside of itself. We are space that is calm, that lingers in time- The rewards are like shadows climbing on walls. Hate is a word wrapped in the dark-it is a hand that shakes my hand. I am not the death that is seen inbetween, and the darkness that seeps Within- When I am at home, I am like a mountain that rises up out of the ashes. I am the night that folds down, down into the nothingness of time. Down into the nothingness of space. I see fame, and it is how I am-it is the space opera of tomorrow, the shadow In the dimness, the dark, the seeing… We have nothing, we see nothing. We are nothing like a light that goes on and off In an empty room. You think you care but you don’t care. You think you see but you can’t see. You trap me like a lion-a lion in the dim and dark and unseen shadows, And we are red flowers, folding like roses…you are greed, and I am not. I am the mountain. I am an empty room.

COMPUTERS AND MONKEYS.

COMPUTERS AND MONKEYS The monkey likes to type on computers-maybe he will turn into someone Important, a unified person that lives outside. In the night, the light shines down on you-in the shadow of itself, we are afraid to Be afraid. The night is not dim. I don’t know what will come from this, I don’t know if we will learn. I thought maybe We could learn to be a people. That the heart of the people is missing inside of us, That we are not dim, that things are not warranted-you call people losers, you call them And dismiss them, and the light is dim and you will keep him. Night is remained unseen. That chaos is not what it is, or how we are-and the night is left alone. The monkey is typing on a keyboard, all thoughts are dim. The cops try to pry me from myself, and the insides of myself are born of nothing. Nothing is nothing, and the shallowness…we feel, In the light, we are alone. The monkey types on his computer.

THIS TIME.

In this time, I won’t find myself looking outside of myself- In the doorway of our lives, my heart rests in my mouth. Inside and outside of time, the birds chirp in their nests- I discovered a way outside the glance of sight. In the inner mind, We weave words of wisdom. Clouds are shot down like a balloon. The words are rhythmic like meadows. I tell people good luck on Their destruction, that the easing of time is many-that the darkness Is not night, and my eyes are not dim-I see the monkeys around me, And thoughts are inside me, glaring like a forest fire, shooting outside of ears. I know some people have to be told to do things, to believe in something They don’t know. This is the willow, the willow is behind the willow. I am inside the ears that are not mine, and we do not speak, we do not find- I wish someone would come along and talk to me, and talk like shadows do. In the nights, the woods are dim, and in the night, creatures hear them… I am willing to do things for money, I am willing to walk home. Time has come without knowing; shadows fade without fear; the hunger inside is growing, And the light is drawing near. The willows are dim and unseeing-the eyes are unseen in dreams. White clouds drift by and I can’t find my way. But the way is not outside of the way. It is here we do not know.

Face In the Water Chapter 1.

1 1600 The assassin stared at King George, his expression stern. “Why do you want me to do that again?” he questioned. King George sighed and rubbed his hands over his eyes. He was very tired. He had stayed up all night, drinking, and he didn't want to be bothered by this man-he was paying him to do the job, and he had to do it, without complaining. He didn't like all the complaining, and he especially didn't like explaining things he didn't understand. “Because they haven't been paying their taxes. I have no choice but to exile them.” King George rose and stretched, letting his hands dangle at his sides. He shook his shaggy, brown head. He wished he was a blonde. He should steal money from the next blonde guy he saw. It would be interesting. “Do we have a deal?” he demanded. He shrugged tiredly; he was very hungry, and his eyes were sagging, and his skin was sagging, also; he was not a spring chicken any longer. He hadn't even bed a wife; he had many lovers, oh how many there were, he had lovers and he had beautiful maids and servants. None of them were powerful enough for him to wed. None of them were nearly close enough. And then, he realized he was getting low on cash, and left his home-he had to eat, or else he would die. He thought he had enough money saved. All he had was his mother's diamonds, and he didn't want to sell it. It was the only thing in the world. “Okay, we have a deal-now, where's my money?” The king couldn't help but laugh; laughter fell from his lips like waves. * * * “What's wrong with your eyes?” The knight almost wet himself. He stared at the assassin, wearing black clothes, a black hood over his face. “Nothing's wrong with my eyes, boy,” he hissed. “You know you go to give me your treasure.” He looked down at the assassin's hands, and realized they were furry. He was terrified, in shock. His mouth hanging open. “What did you say you're from again?” The assassin gave a shuddery laugh. “Didn't. I'm part Anglo-Saxon, part Spanish.” “Do...most of the Spanish look like you?” He shrugged. He was playing with a blade, wielding it around like it was a toy. Dangling it from his hands. “I was inside a lot. I didn't notice much of the other kids. My mother didn't like talking to strangers.” He scowled. “I'll say,” he replied. “What are you doing in my house?” “I didn't want you to wake up. I thought I could get away getting in and out without you hearing me. I guess I'm not as old as I used to be.” Breaking and entering didn't seem to bother him. Bellinmore Reed wondered if he was a pirate. The knight ran through the trees-his breathing was labored. He looked behind him; the stranger in the shadows was still pursuing him, even though he couldn't see him. “Where'd he go?” he asked himself. He knew the man was somewhere, running along behind him. He could sense him. His extra sensitivity was something he didn't tell a lot of people about, but he still had it, stick as stone, and it was in his mind and heart and body. He was a man, but no one who had to go through something like this. He hadn't done anything wrong. The assassin said it was because he didn't pay his taxes. He was a weird man, and had whiskers, and eyes black as night. The eyes followed him wherever he went, and it made him scream and cry and squirm. It made him shiver. He wanted to go home...no home had he. It was gone. They'd destroyed it, taken everything, and had even taken his family's servants. How could his family owe taxes? He didn't understand any of it. But they blamed him, the last living heir, even though they were the ones who had probably killed them, and blamed the robbery on him, and he was due in court. “I don't know why we have to leave home,” Allister Spencer sniffed. He ran his hand over his mouth, trying to blot out the images of the fire in his mind. The smoldering smoke; the darkness; and the ashes. Bellinmore Reed shook his head. “It seems like the King of Scotland has gone mad,” he answered. “He says the English are fighting farther east-he says we have no way out.” He shrugged his shoulders, looking morose. He didn't know how to tell Allister there were knights in the forest beyond the fortress. “Maybe it has something to do with Church vs. State,” Bellinmore suggested, making a face at him. He hated history stuff; and school. He hadn't been to school in years. He remembered very little about it. “Get your stuff together-we'll be leaving shortly.” He ran a hand through his hair, wishing he could cry openly like Allister; he couldn't, and he held still, and he ran back to the campground, and set up a fire. The cook's name was Meadow; he had scraggly blonde hair and blue eyes. His face was longish, and he had a long nose. “What are we having for dinner tonight?” he demanded of the cook. He had found the cook several months ago, wandering alone in the marshes-it seems he had misplaced his home. The knight took him under his wing, and bred him and fed him, and he turned into the glorious creature standing before him. He was learning, oh, how he was learning. The cook hated learning just like Bellinmore, and it suited them both fancy. They were great allies in times of trouble, and good conversationalists.