thesingersgirlrevisited

[thesingersgirlrevisited]

Reports From Nowhere

Hello there. I have nothing to report from nowhere. I have not been strong. And could not hold you, But the idea of you, I could hold, But carefully. I am sorry to have made you cry, Especially when the seasons have gone dark. And when warmth is most important. My absence is not my intention And as follows— Not my choice. As you can see, a kind, black cat scrambles And furnishes the yard. I have come to you in spirit, So you may not be so lonely.

Regards, my dove.

| 2024

[thesingersgirlrevisited]

Romance on the Internet

Kneeling down in makeshift galleries, flattening their newspaper ephemera.  Drawing up wholesome, silly faces at the improv camera.  Spreading robes of butter on shards of glassy rock. Slimming jaw gently pushed up moonward on the breadth of the boardwalk.

This is how muses and creators reach.  Their exchange on the medium, it's brevity in action— A capped speech. 

| 2023

[thesingersgirlrevisited]

Pupil

I want to learn. I want to learn to be a lover, but mostly a fighter.

I want a walking-style. I chill like sorbet. I shimmer like emerald.

I want to learn to turn my claret from a Midori melon.  I want to learn to fight, not bury, the floor with my soft tummy. I want to laser off skull caps as if they were mushroom tops. I want to stomp like triceratops.

I want to learn to mine sweep; those awful tongues do creep. I want to casually swipe away marigolds. I want to casually swipe away ankle biters with a porcelain swatter.

I want to learn callouses. I want to learn to be harder.  I want to learn how to calcify.

This antique carcass is riddled with osteoporosis. I want to grow.

| 2013

[thesingersgirlrevisited]

Arroyo

I am a reservoir displaying My graffiti ribcage.

I squeeze summer-kissed lemons Into the tall glass of my hope. Uneven hope. Undeserved hope.

Nightcap: a spring of  Lemon cashew bars and steaming rooibos tea Steeped.

I want to sleep under the warm neon Of a cyberpunk alley In the fallen evening of a colder spring.

Marching spiders, climb my slopes —Silence me with your venom— Invigorate me With your danger.

The obsolete train crows, Bounces its song Against my functional halls, "If you know, you know."

Let loose my collected water And let slip the rites of spring A web of nature's own graffiti So abundant, A tattooed sleeve observed From space. | 2023

[thesingersgirlrevisited]

Refurbished

I come to see you under the curtain of your hair— It moribund; split-ends, its tassels.

San Andreas made a fault of you; Its consequence— the mosaic Of your reconstituted stained glass. 

I come to find you in the rosewater of a tea cup; Its mime, a reflection of a Breton-habillé, An Edie bouncing off the factory walls.

Cosmetics made a CoverGirl of you, An inconsolable sadness  Inhabiting your raccoon-lined eyes.

I come to want to spray-paint for you, Not an obituary, but a curriculum-vitae.

Mothers weaned you off of the dogmatic oranges Of convent gardens and put inside you, sweeter tangerines, Immigrants, the elements of Tangiers.

I come to find you, refurbished, Rarefied and holding it together. Your optimism hanging precariously like a grape, It's Chardonnay, your draining sun.

| 2015

[thesingersgirlrevisited]

Sarsaparilla

Root beer for the languid belles and parched cowboys. Let’s build on that.

In the saloon, a Tiffany lamp, Will alight her temple, where the bones fuse together, To form an alliance of undiscovered country, Whose boundaries are drawn up With hair with the notes of sarsaparilla And streaks of auburn tears: The clay of a woman bleeding Through her head To confess the lifelong dread Of the side-effect Of constricting corsets And the barren callouses That will undo Those same corsets To adopt An inheritance Of Cowboy Bebop And spat tobacco-chew tar And a pound of flesh That flutters Like the Pieris rapae Does in the wake Of the collapsing cove Of a cabbage leaf.

Hardly thirsty. Hardly lazy. Just vintage and tired from the morning. | 2021

[thesingersgirlrevisited]

Birds With Weights

I feel so strange. I feel like a lead stone.

No matter how hard I try, I am a bird with weights On my feather-bones.

I am a scaffold built on quicksand. Man, I am not ready to join you.

Death, I have not found my tribe. Yet, I still continue to move. And daydreaming, I could fly

In a group, (Aimless)  with no visas. | 2023

[thesingersgirlrevisited]

Aura

On a night that will empty me out of my corsets, An evenly clad bishop Will chomp on my beet liver With the cavalier of one sampling bean dip. My cranberry tail will be there for anyone to strip. Auras will pluck the aura out of me. Auras will launch deadly traffic lights at my head. You, my darling, will drain me of all my color. You, my darling, will turn me into a shade: A shade to attack. You, my darling, will weaponize me against a see, A sea of red Italian cypress trees. I am the soft trajectory As inconsequential as the wind Through the copper leaves of spread maple trees. You, my darling, are the prettiest. Your squibs spray-painting my rosy chest. | 2015

[thesingersgirlrevisited]

DIY

Dangling, a beautiful, white hibiscus-lei Made from toilet paper and shoelace Onto my center— my bullseye-incarnadine With a green, pulsing tributary Impressed with more color at the light touch; Its hill reaching the center, Composed of a splatter of blood, A nose reaching out into a spreading star. They say that your hematic panic Cannot mix with my waxen synthetic, But the silk's train fell on the nexus And my chassis broke with joy.

| 2012

[thesingersgirlrevisited]

The Calcium of Your Shoulder

Placing a round ear Onto the calcium of your shoulder. Barely-there-shoulder, a small knob— It barely warms. And the ear’s place is precarious at best. You have no discernible neck.

That's okay, though. It excites and one cannot fathom why. Just arch it this way Towards this warming sigh.  | 2013

[thesingersgirlrevisited]

Mise en Garde

Her shrug is a dancing sleeve of Jolly Rogers. Her teeth sheathe a dagger of ice. Her aesthetic is bully techno geisha. Her head is a nest of pastel orchids. Her gaze is millennial all-knowing. Her tattoo-sleeves are marbled in a cascade of blood. Her tableau is a magenta sun. Her kimono is zebra. Her obi is paisley. Her point of view is neon— A flagrant sun.

| 2021

[thesingersgirlrevisited]

Destruendi

Late spring, your school of whitethorns Practicing its lazy magic Of morphing into Blistering-red fruit. You were screaming passages into my journal; Yet, timidly whispering in the corner of my backyards. As medicine savagely sewed up my back passage And put me to bed, You continued to console me With your promising, fertile red. All these things to be destroyed Under the cover of night, Only for us to be expected each morning to rise. And to recreate, again. I stable my horses in the freeform ribbons Of eelgrass; Ready to mount and to charge To that simple destination —The finite point when the clock blissfully stops. But the billows and the pillows keep coming. I'm all wet again, grazie. Destruendi. Driftwood spat up, Prised from the tree, the structure (Its original and secondary context.) Singing siren, Whom has stolen my voice to praise you, Whom has stolen my choice to sample you. Enthroned, on a rock of sea samphire, she haunts your wilderness. You break apart on her kingdom, her shore. I have the idea of you in the bud of a hawthorn Roasting in the West's sun. Ideas are lonely. I can't touch them anymore than I can touch the horizon. And anymore than I can touch what nature took back When it destroyed. And what proximity killed When you took her scaly hand To decorate in the hardy reflection Of my drying reservoir. | 2023

[thesingersgirlrevisited]

Vox

Vox:  For the things, unmade.

May the northern zephyr Swallow these unborn, whole.

Vox:  For the reconciliations, unsaid.

May the silent tormentor freshen With a sarcasm, très drôle.

Vox: For the memories…

No star is as dark as ours. No other chill quite smarts Like the dying star That is ours  With a voice that dies on all fours.

Vox, vox, for the memories.  | 2008

[thesingersgirlrevisited]

I Knew Myself

The hoarfrost chaperoned my walk. It knew how to beautify the dead. Delicate and crystalline,

Those unsung confessions dispersed into the ether. They tiptoed under my breath. Dead elm leaves or discipline— I didn’t know how to collect  Either.

Last night, as the root vegetable formed its bolus, I knew I was in for a real treat.  Always, always the dream— A night of wholesome spiritus  Condensing at my cold feet. | 2024

[thesingersgirlrevisited]

Wolf Moon

The wolf moon split in half This morning: half the promise Drained of its orange    Replaced by only silver    A rejection of a half-dollar- Suitor. Last Saturday, the wolf's moon Was lucky and enormous    A fertile promise,    A wine-stained satsuma Wizened by age and experience And the repetition Of calling too many cards... The lovers have split Their juice leaked out Into a slick spill On the grinding river. Suspicious men dragging Their cargo To their gods— the expecting wolves. | 2022

[thesingersgirlrevisited]

These Orangey Shifts

Like the copper and the vermilion on leaves That won't hold their sway, "So goes your attitude; It's your attitude, day to day." The maple leaf is lovely, Especially in its falling humility, it reddens. Yet, we must still consider That it is still a martyr to the manic winds. Like the undependable dew drops That sweat away, "So goes your mood; It's your mood, day to day." Yes, those jewel beads are quite appealing, But what is one drop in even one ounce of salty sea? Come now, reason follow me; These orangey shifts don't accomplish, Not even one success Out of mistake's three. End, end the manic sprees, Even though their colors are appealing. Like the copper and the vermilion on leaves That won't hold their sway, "So goes your attitude; It's your attitude, day to day."

| 2009

[thesingersgirlrevisited]

Part Sanguine, Part Morose

Have the misses clawed that noise? Appalled by secret, Shame-regalia, my skin can Face two halves: coronet rose, coronet dark. A palace of want on insensate wound. Broken bodies, the gutted tulips Blazed my suit. | 2013