......

you are tired

( I think )

Of the always puzzles of living and doing:

So am I

come with me then, 

and we will leave it far and far away - 

(only you and I understand)

you have played

( I think)

and broke the toys you were fondest of

and you are tired now:

tired of things that break, and - 

just tired

so am I

but I come with a dream in my eyes tonight

and knock with a rose at the hopeless gate of your heart

Open to me

for I will show you the places nobody knows

and, if you like

the perfect places of sleep

ah, come with me

Ill blow you that wonderful bubble, the moon

that floats forever and a day

I'll sing you the jacinth song

Of the probable stars

I will attempt the unstartled steppes of dream

until I find the only flower

which shall keep ( I think) in your little heart

while the moon comes out of the sea

 -  e.e. cummings

the road not taken

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood

and sorry I could not travel both

and be one traveler, long I stood

and looked down one as far as i could

to where it bent in the undergrowth

then took the other, as just as fair

and having perhaps the better claim

because it was grassy and wanted wear

though as for that the passing there

had worn them really about the same

and both that morning equally lay

in leaves no step had trodden back

Oh, I kept the first for another day!

I doubted if I should ever come back

I shall be telling this with a sigh

Somewhere ages and ages hence:

two roads diverged in a wood, and I -

I took the one less traveled by

and that has made all the difference.

~ Robert Frost

Becoming a nun

On cold days

its easy to be reasonable,

to button the mouth against kisses,

dust the breast

with talcum powder

and forget

the red pulp meat

of the heart

On those days

it beats like a digital clock-

not a beat at all

but a steady whirring

chilly as green neon

luminous as numerals in the dark,

cool as electricity

and I think:

I can live without it all -

love with its blood pump,

sex with its messy hungers,

men with their peacock strutting,

their silly sexual baggage,

their wet tounges in my ear

and their words like little sugar suckers

with sour centers,

On such days

I am zipped in my body suit,

I am wearing seven league red suede boots,

I am marching over cobblestones

as if they were the heads of men,

and I am happy

as a seven-year-old virgin

holding Daddy's hand

Dont touch

Dont try to tempt me with your ripe persimmons.

Dont threaten me with your volcano.

The sky is clearer when Im not in heat,

and the poems

are colder.

~ Erica Jong

Dinosauria, We

"We are
Born like this
Into this
Into these care­fully mad wars
Into the sight of bro­ken fac­tory win­dows of empti­ness
Into bars where peo­ple no longer speak to each other
Into fist fights that end as shoot­ings and knif­ings
Born into this
Into hos­pi­tals which are so expen­sive that it’s cheaper to die
Into lawyers who charge so much it’s cheaper to plead guilty
Into a coun­try where the jails are full and the mad­houses closed
Into a place where the masses ele­vate fools into rich heroes
Born into this
Walk­ing and liv­ing through this" ~Charles Bukowski

today I think of you

The best slave

does not need to be beaten

She beats herself

Not with a leather whip

or with stick or twigs,

not with a blackjack

or a billyclub,

but with the fine whip

of her own tounge

& the subtle beating

of her mind

against her mind.

For who could hate her half so well

as she hates herself?

& who can match the finesse

of her self-abuse?

Years of training are required for this

Twenty years

of subtle self-indulgence

self-denial

until the subject

thinks herself a queen

and yet a beggar-

both at the same time.

She must doubt herself

in everything but love.

She must choose Passionately

& badly.

She must feel lost as a dog

without her master.

She must refer all moral questions

to her mirror.

She must fall in love with a cossack

or a poet.

She must never go out of the house

unless veiled in paint.

She must wear tight shoes

so she always remembers her bondage.

She must never forget

she is rooted in the ground.

Though she is quick to learn

& admittedly clever

her natural doubt of herself

should make her so weak

that she dabbles brillantly

in a half dozen talents

& thus embellishes

but does not change our life.

If she is an artist

and comes close to genius,

the very fact of her gift

should cause her such pain

that she will take her own life

rather than best us

& after she dies, we will cry

& make her a saint.

~ Erica Jong

white flag

I surrender to a mere reflection of a sun

that will not drench itself upon me

and bleach my mind clean

I surrender to a life less expected

we cannot detach from a memory - that will never be severed

a phantom to my every limb