neuro blasto
kerpow
blam blam mama
and swish and swoosh
over and under and over and through and under and under
pop fizzes snaps crakles
rife with pot holes loop holes black holes
gaps and fissures
looks and frictions
gaze gaze
in a self-reflexive manner
the tracking shot and a jump cut
rupture rupture
pop invisible sutures
and a straight cut to a close up on her face
a pained expression
or pleasure?
sweat and strain
a quivering lip and a tear dripping of her sweaty chin
she shakes
nothing collides
misses and misfirings off-track, target, beat.
out of sync
and non-deigesis exposes the homogenity
and extends the off screen space
post-dubbing sync sync
gapping holes
abject abject
uncanny resemblances shut eyes tight
cranes his head to get a better look
and the guilt and the punishment
then there's the bearer of the look
castration
a masquerade to hide the lack
a masquerade to make topsy turvy monstrosities
carnival carnival
the real she, she is doubly displaced
double over
over the moon
moondance
moonstruck
and stuck
circling through the nested story sturcture
and surrealism surrealism
can't stay
jittery knees and frozen toes antedote
cold cold
twenty below zero celcius
koniec

part I

i've got mingus on my headphones
stereophonic
biaural
i imagine my brain lighting up like a random act of fireworks.
accelerated.
then the tempo shifts.
my brain chugs at an even pace, with 9 million thoughts and processes going on.
at once.
simultaneously.
this ability to experience random particles of existence
shapes the hue and speed
the pitch of my lived experience.
if you just let go who knows what might surface.
momentarily,
out of sync
non-digetic
in succession
simultaenous to the process of my brain.
my left ear has a trumpet
staccato
pounding elegant.
the right ear hears an erratic and smooth piano.
andiamo!
fused.
leaving layers to be peeled back, discovered.
or hidden unnoticed
but blending into one,
while 12 other thoughts patiently wait their turn to race around my skull,
as my body sits quietly.
experiencing it all.
the trumpet enters my right ear
creeping over
crossing boundaries
expanding the dimensions of my brain.
and the pattern of the carpet distracts my eye.
and it's all one.
all these incongruent processes, mesh.
blend.
flux.
fluid.
trespass, like the duelling trumpets
blowing thier music in my ear
accelerating
triumphant
bittersweet.

part II
the cold plastic seat
white noise makes it's way slipping under the melodies in my head
and doors open and close.
announcing arrivals
and departures.
in and out of this hallway, the space between the rooms where people are conducting business and disseminating ideologies.
in between.
in this cold hallway.
the bass plucks away until it gives way to the trumpet duet.
stereophonic
and my head hurts a little
less.

part III

below zero
no wind
the taste of coffee
the caffeine is hitting my blood
the tension in my head let's up
if only a little
this music is far too complex for an aching head.
masochism
masochism
20 things I should be doing,
so i write instead.
today my brain is busy
but erratic
frenetic
grasping,
shooting energy and combinations atoms create thoughts
and make me
create me
silly promises whispered from my unconscious
shame shame
faster faster til i can only pick out the trumpet blaring
droning
or if i concentrate hard enough i can break the wall of sound into parts
the drum
piano
bass
trumpet again
pounding
rattling
shaking my brain
wake up
wake up
and the cold makes me want to curl up and sleep.

slap that.
slap it.
and work it.
work it.
work.
and phil colins has music on the new grand theft auto commercial.
and my kid
the one with two loose teeth and keeps asking when the dogs might die so she can get a hamster named mr.hayao miyazaki
that kid, she had night terrors tonite, for the second time.
ever.
and this one boy avoided me today.
and i bombed a women's studies final.
i finished first and barely even gave it a once over.
that test was over before it began.
there seems to be utterly
no
information
of any use
whatsoever
in my brain at this moment.
only useless information,
sitting here at 1am eating ginger snaps and
watching south park
and not writing
not even one page
phrase
paragraph of one in thirty which all thirty of are due on the 7th day of the next stretch of time.
two seperate research papers.
and i'm disengaged.

I could bow and bend with great ease
but only for so long
The ease of
transformation
seemingly disappeared
from my treasure chest of
abilities

The great pressure on my shoulders
has not lifted
in fact
I feel as though it has
increased.

I am angered at my isolation
being so far away from those who love me?

I despise the doubt that seeps
like a toxic gas
inching its way in
:permeating:
leaving me limp
by the death of my dreams

For nothing I have
resembles what

I thought it should have been

My children will know the world of the absent father
just as I did.

I wished so much more for them
and for myself

I flounder around my life
asking questions
and never getting an audible answer
because I can only hear the mumbles
of the truth I need
so dearly
under the weight of this water
that consumes me

I fear that along with the forest of abandonment and disenchantment
my children will also suffer
at the doorstep
of the emotionally devoid mother.

but in this case, perhaps its not that she is devoid
but overflowing
not able to harness the powerful.intensity.

I want to dam it up
harden
cement these walls
to make me impenetrable
protecting the fortress of

i

but, I am not hardened

just raw.

fleshy in this period of
coming
to
terms

this "period" feels like eons
everyday a
thousand years
stuck
inside
this
hell of unknowing. fear.

this ship has sunk
and I am beached

for I surrender.

nothing is as it should be
everything
and everyone
is cracked

swallowed by the nothing.

and Im standing on the corner
head in hands
screaming
into the hollow bones
of the carcass
belonging to the animal
that wishes to defeat me.
I cannot fight.
I cannot cry.
I cannot triumph.

I just scream

and wallow in the mud

of broken shells

and they will all point and say

she just lost

it

"it" being

my solidarity
and the sureness of step

by which I slipped
on a crack

and broke

THIS mother's

back."Everybody else seemed to have the brakes on. [...] I never feel the brakes. I overflow. -- anais nin"

i want it so bad
but i doubt it shall be
or fleeting?
fleeting would be nice enough
so i could feel like it was worth the effort
not shrugged off
a noble try
don't laissez-faire me
don't forget me
want me
like i want to nuzzle the smell of you
in the crook of you neck
and cave into
collapse into your chest
clinging tight
to hear that heart beat in time
maybe with mine
even if it's only for one day
but i'd settle for three
and then some more
'cause i'm greedy
and needy like that
if you want it to
wouldn't it be nice?
don't you feel a cold spot under your collarbone
where my head should be?
like a phantom limb
it's the cold spot where love likes to sit
even if it's temporal
not eternal
that spot should be warmed with utmost sincerity
several times a year
my head might fit nice
i'd like to rest it there if you don't mind
much obliged
tenderly
breatheing deep
sweetness in silence perched on lust
shuddering
shaking
quaking
yearning
aching
for the place to rest my loving head
and sleep
it's different for everyone
it's all the same
and so specific
each love tweaked to it's match
to fit
to work
for different reasons
on different occasions
with different lovers
orbiting the same sun
under the same sky
in the same lifetime
but i never write love poems anyways.

when bleary eyes close
seal the world off
out
huddle under the covers
dark
quiet
new world borders
re-order
priorities
from self-less to selfish
it's for my own good
i must be mad
or not
sealing out lived realities
too many to count
to enter a whole new cosmos
as organic as any
overlapping
undermining
revolutionizing
co-existing
in my head.

waiting on a cold
cold grey
grey sky covered
covered cloudy day
for the sun to peek
if it may
but it won't.
just the same
it's cloudy
cold and grey
want it to melt away
and give way to
push away from
this
sad sad
solemn and quiet
grey grey grey
cloudy cold
cold and grey
grey sky covered
sunday in november

Distance.
The space between,
the air there,
there.
There
and
not
here.
I want to feel the pavement slapping the soles of my well-worn shoes.
Sweaty feet
swollen
but in heaven to hit the streets
…if you know what I mean
To rush about and get shit done
not sitting complacent.
No
no
true.
I want it to be true.
My intentions
tensions
actions
events.
Truth and power
will me
will me to my feet.
And smell the smell of bodega air
a/c set too high
icy
icy
cold.
So good on a humid city
hot city
city summer day.
It doesn’t end at my skin.
This doesn’t end when I wake up.
It doesn’t lull when I wane
I wax poetic about the city
In the summer
Heat.
About community
family
tried and true.
A scene.
Any scene.
That’s where I want to be
need to be.
Not this dirty city,
sprawled out as far as it can reach,
Sprawled
across the landscape
Not up.
Not
UP.
No one gets up,
gets out
of the car.
Driving between
pointless appointments
that keep me running,
but not thinking.
I want to feel my feet in my shoes,
and boot it.
Kick it
Stomp it
Smash it
Slash it
Kill it
Maim it
Woo it
Smooth it
Kiss it
Fuck it
Feel it
Beat it
Beat
Beat
Beat.
Away.
And put the air between here
and me.

Along with sad news
Comes *new* news, most exciting --
Announcement coming soon!

"Do not forget. Remember and warn."
-- Plaque fixed to the hollow shell of Sarajevo's National Library

Farewell to giggles,
foul gestures that hide budding
truths, and smiles that say
"I'm smart who cares if it's not
on paper--who fricking cares?"

she said: write why you write. write why you don't. write. so i wrote. To empty my head of the clutter and clamour that crashed around my skull.
keeps me awake at night.
thinking, thinking.
get it down, get it out.
to be heard?
to hear myself.
the shaky, unstable connections i make lying in my bed so late.
thoughts racing.
spinning, spinning.
can't sleep with all this noise in my head.
swirling swirling
in my head.
i ponder "the degrees of disenchantment of...embodiment."
embodiment.
embodiment.
keeps me up, wired. i leap, lash out, grasp for the net, the temporal platform for, me.
...whoever that is today.
it isn't a choice, i'm compelled
to get it out.
speak
speak.
to tell, to be heard, to clarify, justify, organize, effect, question, wonder
sweat and scream.
and, when i'm done i sleep.
this manic mama. hear me.

under the weather
today I feel deeply flawed
very flawed indeed

"Do not forget. Remember and warn."
-- Plaque fixed to the hollow shell of Sarajevo's National Library

My daughter throws small stones into the East River,
Just as I threw pennies into the fountains of my childhood.
Does she make a wish each time
Her pebble breaks the surface?

Tonight I will wish for her.
I will wish for her knees to be forever limber,
For her to always be able to run
Whereever her mind--and heart--wish to take her.

And I will wish
That the world will be safe enough
So I need not worry
When she does.

my house of cards fell today
crashed landed today
devastated today
broke an old mother's heart today

my house of cards
built just for one lost
man's heart and soul,
For nothing.

I exorcise my demons
Through you
(or is it through me?)
And I feel a freedom coming.

Coming
but I don't want to go
though I'm not sure why.
I don't want to be without you
(or is it without me?)
And I am afraid of losing.

Losing
but I'm not sure what I am losing.
My demons
are so comforting
And I don't want to be alone.

Regina
"Karma is a boomerang"

Arthur on the teevee
Siamese yowling on the stairs
Teenaged arguing on the phone
Midget asking, asking why
and Mama dreams of work.

What lies behind us and what lies before us are tiny matters compared to what lies within us. -RW Emerson

Staring at the photos—
Of young men with la Virgen
Tattooed across their chests—
Indelible blue ink,
Sharp, thin lines,
I suddenly remember that once
A boy pulled back the edge
Of a dark green jumpsuit
To reveal my name—

Two fuzzy blue characters
Done with a contraband needle
And ink from a smashed Bic—
Etched over his heart.

can i finish these
edits before the school bus
comes roaring toward home?

----------
tenderfoot zine * mamaphiles!

Finger in his butt.
Then finger under my nose.
Ha ha ha, he laughs.

At Work

There's dried breastmilk on my steering wheel
Dried breastmilk on my desk
Dried breastmilk on my keyboard and
Dried breastmilk on my dress
Which is black
And shows it.

I stand in the restaurant window
Eating while swaying so the baby won't fuss
Her sister eats sitting across the table

A family hurries by outside
The woman carrying a child, walking fast, angry
Her husband
The culprit, I can tell
Follows
Trying to sulk and keep up at the same time

I glare where he can see me
Let him know that he has been a very bad boy and that I know
That it is all his fault
That the world, in fact, now judges him
And finds him wanting indeed
The woman will never know of my solidarity
But it will help her just the same

I keep waiting for
The hatchet to fall. Each day
More co-workers gone.

Then came some
chance occurance
after surviving a hike
snow drifted blunt rocks
with Kinder boy child
yellow lab dancing with
pit bulls
Visit this place
there are the stars
shining right there on
my keyboard
voice of women
I love
yet have not met
ever
my light joins their
night sky now
hello twinkling mamas
jubilant restrained
beasts of
days gone by
yet to come
lucious dreamers
of words

I have to wait
until the day is over
to own myself
myself
and there is nobody at my hip
tugging
mommy
mommy I want
mommy can you help
can you play
mommy can you fix
can you make
even my partner
my soulmate
my love
even though it is
only my body requested
to lie next to yours
I need sometimes to not be
needed
and I need to be alone
just for a little while so
I can be needed and
I can give
I can help
I can play
I can fix
I can make
please please
after I
have some time alone
I will not shout or glare and
I will be cheerful and mean it

everyhing sounds a way wihou he t

yea, it sound a certain way and I like i
I sar o ge all abou my lack

i ge used o i
I make a way ha embraces it
he lack
ahaaaa crying and laughing

ahhhaa ha

his movie of my life
is about many things, driving in he rain
yping wihou a T is yping

(this poem isn' so good. but its easy jus like me)

kettle's whistle jolts
me into awareness. sky
is grey, my wrists cold.

With no one else in the office,
I can stack boxes,
Move furniture
and books
and newspapers,

Converting the shelves into drying racks,
Sliding each pinkened print
Between the metal slats.

Back and forth I roll
From the cleared desk behind me
Where I hunch over each print
and blot pink oil paints onto
gray surfaces,
Wiping the edges with a napkin,
Dabbing with pieces of cottonball
So that the lettering shows through

To the computer,
Where I straighten my back
And type a stack of meaningless names
and addresses
and phone numbers.

I check my e-mail again,
Check all the usual messageboards,
Then roll my chair back,
Fish the next print from its envelope,
Turn it sideways

Dip my q-tip into the pink blob slowly seeping
Through the glassine envelope,
Blot it onto the print,
Start the process again.

I could play music.
I could go out for coffee.
I could stop and eat lunch.

I do not.

I revel in the silence
Broken only by the sound
Of wheels rolling against the floor
and my fingers hitting the keyboard,
Again and again.

Cynicism reeks
Lousy out of teenage pores.
I am their captive.

perfectly stated,
pristine, the poems in my
head remain unread.

dreamed of rain all night.
woke up to rain. overflow
from my drowning mind?

The blue-green thinness of the foremilk
Shimmers briefly in the bottom of the collection bottle
Before the weight of the creamy hindmilk at the top
Brings that milk down, down to swirl together with the foremilk
Later, in the refrigerator, the cream will rise again.

so many miles, it's
all you can do, tell florist
use no baby's breath

on
hands
and
knees
i
scrub
the
floor

careful
to
follow
each
line
and
contour
of
the
wood

several
times
the
rag
turns
black
from
the
dirt
and
grime

several
times
i
rinse
it
in
water
so
hot
it
scalds
my
fingers

until
it
turns
from
black
to
a
light
gray

finally
i
have
finished
and
throw
the
rag
away

but
the
pile
of
cement
dust
and
broken
wonderboard
remains
in
the
hall
outside
my
door

and
tomorrow
the
dust
will
begin
to
cake
the
floor,
turning
it
from
reddish
brown
to
gray

again

Arriving home from evening errands made exhausting
By Baby's desperate hatred of the car
We find the neighbors out
Gathering in front of the houses
That rare, sweet convergence

So we sit
In the cool darkness
Rest in the soft glow of Neighborhood
Watch the progression of the lunar eclipse
With mothers and fathers and children
Nursing the now happy baby

Stresses of the day
Eclipsed by our communion.

day after haiku

seethe, my rage. biting
back these poisoned words will not
help you now. weep; speak.

A flowerseller plods down Rivington Street
Clutching a pink and yellow bouquet of roses.

He stops, holds out a yellow one,
A rosebud picked too soon,
To a blonde outside a bar.

She steps past him,
Crosses the street.
He turns to the man on his cell phone
Who ignores him.

The blonde returns to the sidewalk,
Stands before him,
Reaches into her back pocket
And pulls out
A lighter.

He stands before her,
Still extending the yellow rosebud.
She reaches into her pocket,
Hands him a dollar,
Takes his rose.

She paces the sidewalk outside the bar,
Holding the rose to her nose
Between drags of her cigarette.

The flowerseller disappears into the bar
When he emerges, his bouquet looks no less full.
He passes the blonde
And hands her a pink rose,
This one captured fully in bloom.

He ambles up the street,
Stopping at the corner to wordlessly offer his wares
To the people walking by.
The fluorescent light of the Stop One sign
Illuminates the puzzled look on his face
As he turns this way and that,
His flowers thruse towards unobserving passersby.

Then, they are gone.

He turns the corner
And is gone too.

a droplet of sweat runs down my leg
my forehead is damp
the sliver of morning light
coming through the side of the drawn blinds
is a stalagtite of white in the dark room
under my eyelash it forms a light show
splintering, breathing, merging
a hole left by a cats claw
emits sunlight as a diamond
cheap white blinds, came with the house
but this girl, she comes for you

this house saps my strength
and motivation to do
anything today

election day blues

you walk the streets
like a lunatic, ranting,
and come home sweating.
your hot air has boiled over,
yet you are not at peace.

the day opens, shining -
staggers to a close, dazed and grey.

our child is carried away from us,
spends the sunlight where we can't reach him,
learning about dead customs.
he does not hear them anyway.
he watches the dead leaves falling
instead, waits for the beloved school bus,
glinting jack-o-lantern orange in the distance.

it will be a long night.

winter is coming.