The blond and the bluster

tall
thin
blond
pretty
pretentious
demanding
attention
she argues with my friend Cyndy
over business cards
and an afterparty
her gay
approaches Cyndy
to apologize
Cyndy blanches
claims
no worries
he walks away



Cyndy fumes
and the blond
makes a lot of noise
playing pool
behind us
knocking balls
as Cyndy admits she hates her
because
she is pretty
then Cyndy lets her thoughts
spiral
forgets why
she is upset
is instead looking for a reason
outside of her own
in something
the blond said
some weakness
of the pretty girl's
excuses
for being
insecure
something about a rich
drunk
infamous
father
on the front page
and the whispers
that followed
and the possession
by the blond
of personal
and
business cards
how pretentious
Cyndy says
as the blond is called to sing
and she stalks the floor
commanding
and demanding
everyone's attention
her gay by her side
while
Cyndy
remains
angry
alone
at the bar

Bloody lips and all

Synchronicity, letting go,
making positive choices,
helping others,
getting fatter,

my intentions for 2012.

I am trying not
to gulp the dark

with such
greedy swallows.

Seems simple,
but grace takes

constant care
and consideration

until it becomes
what you do,

and even then
you will
fall,

but,
fuck it,

chicks dig scars,
after all.

Snowed in

she thinks
she is more attractive
when she speaks.

her style,
her being,

caught shifting
in a half-realized
becoming.



I ask,

how do we let the world know
that inside
there are symphonies
films
novels
poems

entire other worlds of beauty

when our exterior
awkwardly
manifests?



or,
is your fire lost when exposed to the winds of others opinions?

she looks into her notebook
and laughs

as she slides down the bench
to be close
to another.

you look good
rotten
she informs him.

is it the cocaine
the sex
or your well-maintained lawn?

it's just the shape of my
bones,

no secrets
at home,

even this white chalky form
had to be born,

he says
as he rattles off.

things you still see

ghosts...

like silk,
like bone,
like echoes,


like a recurrent wisp
a bony-wristed fist-
exposed and glowing as if an apparition-

raised and ready to strike,
raised and ready to strike

a familiar warning,
the click of the bone's wretched sounds echoes...

bone on flesh against bone;
blood on your silk face.

there's always a morning
after a bloody, haunted

evening's sins
evaporate.

"...on the horizon
and swimming away..."

as a diaphanous dawning yawns
as a prelude to every day's mundane...

a definite dream

Is there a word for everything?
I don't think so.
Not at all.

(It would make me mad
and drive me mad
if that was so).

She leans against me and I think
no one has ever had this moment butI
and no one ever will.

Is it any wonder, Sarah?

Nashville had that breath of the wider world for her
it felt like Home
enough like her dreams
to be miserable but feel grounded

at Home
finally
and revealed
before others comfortable even though she felt liquid like

that picture of her
heels
snow
large bottle of Vodka

it enticed and served to warn me
as did her heroic
tragic
lovely dirty white dress

her permanent Alabama pout
beneath her heavy eyelids
that told you she liked to kiss
and kiss

she fled one weekend
like she was me
suddenly in love with someone never mentioned
away she went

had a baby back home
living with her sister
convinced
love was her salvation

the grand forgiveness
the final hurdle
the way Home
the forever sunset

suddenly back and wanting to visit
declaring love and wonder
distrustful still
she made me wonder

"clear as a bell and sound
as an old engineer"

the small figure
bore no trumpets

his fingers silently
pause above her shoulders



she has a beauty
that comes as a warning

the tips of his thumbs
press into her shoulders

her neck is white and warm

her neck is curved like a storm