the reality of my face is a distant murmur.

lips have turned into dots, eyes are small circles. there is a slit

on the center of my upper lip.

this strange form, the clump of mass

standing before a mirror, talking to an illuminated

silouette. nothing is recognizable, cheeks, lips, hair, the

distorted expression of sadness and shock, weary and alien. the dark, ever present black circles glow in the yellow light of the bathroom.

trapped between retreat and movement. open and out, crawling through the small cave within me left from another chamber...into the water, a cool pool awaits, perhaps.

bells jingle and i am tumbled back into the skin. strange, not my own. none of these molecule collections are mine, stored out of human habit and expectation.

the eyebrows continue to furrow, only digging the forehead line a little deeper, adding more angry character to this jew. the monster continues to find ways to escape, to make any sweet moment shrink from joy. it sucks on smiles and beauty. it rapes understanding, violently thrusting its hungry mouth into wakefulness. no, hiding from its fury and strength only calls its name, a multitude of sounds. it hears when all is silent, when hands are tightly holding my neck, bringing me to life. death brings me closer to the breath of these pink lungs, struggling to catch the whispers roaming though these ears.

once more, for we are clouded.

can i play upon your lips?

drum out a tune on the grand piano, set so gently on the upper lip

swinging on the thick black vines rooted to a delicious face,

my moist naked body curls among the tendrils, climbs the twisting mass towards sweet white skim.

what is not covered is absorbed by my tongue, monstrous hunger consumes the

ghost of desire. her brown eyes are closed, while a red mouth searches for the taste of

salt and sweat and urine.

the capacity for a satiation has been dissolved, thrown into the pit of awakening.

there it will remain until the machine has been wrangled, spanked, thrown into obediance,

domination, understanding.

may i have another?

a hand catches speed, its velocity mounting, increasing energy, delivering punishment.

I want never to forget our meeting, going in two opposing directions- on two different trains. We communicated- something more real than words will ever have the power to describe. Friend, if we don't meet again- thank you.

the pact

mutations with forethought

when all these shells crumble between my toes

the waves will surely rise above my shoulders-

like a mermaid unfolding, my fins will expand- filling the space and

bringing all the electricity of the dark ocean currents to this

little city of three.

orange will shoot out, causing ripples.

purple will dash and mingle....wrapping and curling, like a roller coaster on fire.

a blue so bright it burns will wrap around the two, like a DNA strand,

mutated...

making darwin scream, for this surely is creation with

knowledge.

these are thought and movements towards greatness.

when all stars smile and send their signals.

we nod back and raise our arms- currents fly.

portraiture

working

zip me in

step into the lydia suit-

where rainbows play hopscotch

in a warm room with the shades drawn,

while beats draw circles and triangles with a wide pelvis that sings

with a funny "fa" that went in the wrong direction.

where a leprechaun with black beard and gold fingers move in and out to

find hidden gold. venturing through tunnels that seem to go to the center of the earth...moving

in, yet expanding beyond the bounds of this sphere into dimensions that can only be

comprehended by videogames or dilated pupils.

random beauty

Oliver and Kate- true examples of love.

the changing connection

the beautiful Karla

i just got rejected from putting my photos up in a taqueria and then i said hi to someone I had taken photos of months ago, at the time, he told me he was a merchant sailor, on his way to the East. He looked at me with vacant eyes and asked why I was talking to him. I replied that I took photos and talked with him a couple months ago, he said "and?"

I said, I just wanted to say hi. he said "lovely," in the weirdest way. he was so vacant. we had smiled and laughed with each other earlier.

on another note, I saw Karla, the beautiful mother I connected with at the lavanderia and I got her address to send photos.

more importantly, my mood was even and lighthearted through all these encounters...which is wonderful.

One of the smartest and fun people I know, Christopher

another queen on 24th

The power of an old queen.

I stare at her until she returns my gaze. She has all my attention, I stare- a smile

on my face, turquoise cup in hand- coffee is steaming.

She holds my eyes, takes me in. She has ash on her forehead...seconds later she wears a

smile as well. The apron over her clothes is checkered blue and white and faded

with use and laundry. I mouth "HOLA" and she nods and smiles at me. An old queen who

could be drenched in jewels and rich velvets and silks, her smile is a treasure of jewels her

scepter grants. A humble woman, I bow at her feet, so thankful with contact.

Jessica is a photographer too, she especially likes taking photos of her mom.

As old women turn goblets of

rainwater into bitter wine with their

stare, I push past feasts.

Tables covered with chicken and turkey, the

scents of glazed hams suffocate.

Blindly I move with eyes closed,

stumbling on stone steps.

My center leads as I try to quiet stomach and mind.

There is almost darkness, just tiny

glints of candlelight enter between the cracks of my eyelids, undeterred

by eyelashes.

My gown is itchy- crinkling with each step.

Made out of cheap fabric, it gives the illusion of royalty without

the silks.

My skin asks for velvet- something soft.

When I reach my room, past all these distractions; I will slip out

of this garment... walk naked to the balcony.

With a body covered white, moonlight dripping from my fingers; I will

jump into the river below- icy is its kiss.

This beautiful Oaxacan woman sold me delicious food. I should have asked her name.

This sunset stretches-

time lapsing and still it endures and bestows a

brilliant orange for my eyes to feast,

my heart to grasp with tears,

sweetened with pleasure.

Streaks electrified by the mystery of color,

the glowing of songs that change the

chemistry of a boundless sky.

The window is small, I see

only blue muffin shaped clouds, almost a grey-ish black-

lines, massive streaks of orange and pink at the ends of earth and

the most round blue that defies gratitude with its beauty.

A blue to eat with a turquoise spoon.

A blue to lick carefully, with curiosity.

A color that sparkles as well with the first star. And it continues.

dream that has stayed

We were in the resting spot of an incredible magic tree, surrounded by moving nougat waters. Magic people lived in a world close to the enchanted tree. We swam to the island of a tree from a submerged car, a huge suburban that Leeza felt immortal in- like she could drive anywhere or over anything. A pretty young Burner-looking type sat on a bench, her clothes and skin drenched in dried nougat residue, covering her like fairy dust. She had dreadlocks and artfully tattered clothes. In the place were many limbs spring forth from a lovely truck, we resided.
Waiting for the dream to move forth.

When everyone is a victim,

regarding the past-

with hindsight so magnificently clear and sparkling

that the blind have visions;

we rest,

in the smiles that have settled on our faces.

Sunday night at 36,000

Cities looks like clustered galaxies

linked together with cluttered order

and vast blackness.

From a view,

thousands of atoms of distance-

still a quick jump away.

Blue that descends to a rich orange and pink red.

Calm fills the air,

within my cells and behind this think window.

the number behind an orange vest, your name???

the moon is full, but clouded from my face by low hanging blankets of mist,

easily disguising the reasons for my tears.

quickly i am swept in the tides of my emotions, moving from laughter and sly smiles to

cliff jumping tears and energetic earthquakes.

i am naked despite my gold silk, bought cheap and worn well

with my old fashioned knee high socks; so, so reminiscent of early erotica.

my skin glows white in front of this box, an artificial moon, allowing me to shift.

i lay awake and think of a long, interesting hand on my cheek, agreeing with a "see-er,"

number 47 or 49 about my beauty.

momentarily i am stunned by love and affection. i smile, unable to articulate.

touched, my heart moves tears to quickly fill my eyes. they work together as a clever team.

he said " i love you guys."

we could probably count the times this has passed though a mouth so lovely, bringing a spirit of dance and deep earth chants and knocking down my gates.

in a position so sterile and utterly bureaucratic, reminding me of a Russia i have never seen.

where lines of cars wait and push forward.

moments after 8 am

I am an immortal paragraph,

sprouting from dreams

and waking beauties to fulfill my desires.

I press against a warm cushion, stroke a steaming leg.

Poetry on white gallery walls, making Juan laugh in the translation.

Displayed next to the EZLN propaganda paintings, calling horny young men into action-

I will exist simply because i was a thought.

My form was changed when written,

it will be changed again when read,

and once more when spoken.

I am an immortal paragraph,

that gives shape to the intangible colors

of sleeping tigers and witches.

That brings already warm hands into battle, to fight for the energy left to die

on the minefield of the subconscious.

Quite forgotten, but existing always within lovely cells, perhaps beyond flesh walls.

I am an immortal paragraph.

bus stop waits

dance teachers of the highest order

most women were shaking their asses, lovely and sensual, figure-eights and stylized moves, but you, in a pink party dress and dancing with your dad made me smile. he flipped you, pulled you around the floor, you guys played with the music, like a childhood friend. there were no "moves," nothing beautiful except the most amazing and liberated movement to the drums. others were dancing, but you were really feeling it. I gravitated and began to move like a little girl, just jumping , twirling, wishing i had a dad there to flip me in the air. i just want to fall to the floor and play and move to rhythms without style. we are all amazed by belly dancers' hips and practiced art forms, but i want to freak out and run in circles.

taliesin

lessons need to be learned Lydia!!

i am mad. i dropped my tool, my beautiful camera. and i probably did it on purpose, i kept talking about "upgrading," now, it's broken and i can do nothing. ahhh, i am really mad, i don't know how to take care of possessions, all books become stained with food and tea, bent at the edges. clothes are stained...is it unconscious, my attention elsewhere? i will start to pay attention. when i take a sip of tea, i will watch as my hand returns the cup to the table, and put it on a piece of paper or get a fucking coaster. already there is a cup stain on my beautiful wood desk, the desk that helps me to write and be organized....let me take care of my things, these things which can serve me. they keep me warm, allow me to photograph, play with photoshop and speak with people around the planet. it is time to pay attention, because dropping things constantly is not working.

car fetish

johnny, as he was once called

he was introduced to green tea in china, where he was posted during WWII with the coast guard. we started talking because i was carrying a big, black teapot.

obliged

after rain

the sun of 24th st.

i look into flaming pupils constantly.

each eye comes from a distant land, unknown to the other, although on the same earth.

the left has moved with sages and still drinks from sacred gold cups, glittered with red grains and silver drops which leave stems in their wake.

wisteria grows and drops like the roman grapes you once sucked.

young girls bring you purple bunches and gently stuff your mouth.

down your chin with gravity, a trail of juice moves. the one with dark and curls licks sweetness from your chin.

sitting beside your chair, stroking your smooth legs.

her cheeks turned pink and shoulders took a turn towards brown; although nothing concealed her coloring, as elgant hands painted love upon her neck.

smiles spread like spilled wine from the wet mouths of vampires.

all colors defy logic.

what i once thought of as red and orange has become brown and green;

like the richest soil, ready to bear sugar-coated candy fruit.

glowing beneath sun infused leaves, every vein is illuminated.

they melt and move within each others caves. blendding with such precision i am again in awe of nature's design.

i see blades of grass sprouting, each once singing a spanish ballad and you wear their mustaches with flair.

with magik you have shrunken in size. i could step on you with ease, although my foot would revolt againt the darkness of that thought.

it would siftly amputate itself at the hip before move a toe towards your gentle face, which smiles as steel chords are strummed.

a woman prays to The Virgin

i passed this beautiful image, this interesting man. i should have went inside and talked to him.