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.

why can't nipples type?

they sing and moan, cause accidents despite alertness...

but they make other parts of the body put feelings into language...

although we could debate the changing mutations of language, i would rather lick red and white lollipops, as big as the moon on steroids. lick until my tongue begs for mercy and every sweet tooth has given up, dying from saturation. i would use the big, left-over stick as a flag pole, finally making my quilt with jimi's immortal words "make love, make love, make love, make love."

how long have i been collecting fabric for that project? textiles hand-picked in Kauai and Mexico, flea markets, thrift stores and brought to my santa cruz treasure box in old suitcases from India and all the portals of creativity.

finally, i will sew, will christen and stain the quilt with love, oh so much love and passion that the song will beat like gong's in our eardrums and we will laugh and scream and i will bite your ear off, almost completely. it will hang by a string of skin, but don' t worry, i will use gold thread to repair your beautiful lobe.

after my collaboration is blessed and given proper rituals of spit and blood and flower garlands, we will raise it; dark air will give it breath and it becomes a creature blowing red and purple smoke. those words will flap in the night, adding a funny touch to the noises of darkness. the letters will stay, brilliant and shiny, but something in them, the energy? no, the meaning...the hope will move, it will take flight and bounce.

it will be carried to every corner that exists. by cabinets and grey cubicles it will fly and leave silver dust. it will kiss the mouth of a man looking for bottles and will send ripples across a tea cup in england filled proper. in many years, it will find me again and enter my mouth as i am kissing in the park beneath the shade of green and orange, when our tongues meet, and i exhale, it moves into you.

when i am barking at the moon, i truly want to be stroking the contours of your white skin.

it glows and i am reminded of night and forests abundant with orange mushrooms and sparkling flowers that drip dew like sweet syrup.

we all come to lick their thin petals, marveling at the strength of their papery flesh.

we look at each other in the dark and smile with white teeth illuminating our red beating insides.

our blood flows out of four toes and silently seeps back into the blanket of moist leaves.

all is plush beneath my soles and i jump higher with the padding.

its smells musty, but i have grown accustomed, and inhale with a certain greediness;

filling both my lungs as though i never had asthma, never was constricted and choked.

i have left my inhaler behind for the black night air that would be scary under most circumstances, but you are here, holding my hand and goosebumps are quickly sung lullabies and fed ginger cookies.

yes, it is very, very dark. and these trees behave like friends, actually bending to allow me a climb, cheering when i get closer to streaking stars.

el faun

why is it i cry from fiction

watching a man's face being crushed with a hammer, or not seeing, just hearing and feeling my body tense and breaths that are hard to take. i lie in my dark room, blankets pressing down, hand over my soft breast, heart creating echoes among the blue-caged walls. i keep crying when i think about the hate-filled character, brutalizing people and murdering a little girl.

he only looked scared when he realized the baby would never know his name; terror, human emotion and fear finally burrowed in his chest; then he was shot.

my eyes are open and the stinging continues.

i finally let emotions move in all their ever-sweeping power. i heave...but for characters? or for the story, the feeling, the truth that was spoken and shared and conveyed with creative vibrancy for the world to experience, for me to feel. only her little body died, she left and was once again a princess, once again with her family and beyond this mortal world. i cry for it all. i keep going beyond the edge, i felt it walking up my stairs after i was dropped off, emotionally heavy and vulnerable. for a while i was calm, after a day in laguna, sun smelling and sun-filled laziness, but being left on the curb changed that, i had no words to explain to your ears.

did you feel my heart and see my eyes?

so porous. but i used it. i transformed my space last night and wrote. did i dance? i focused o my heart and fell asleep, awaking tired from vivid dreams. i recorded them half asleep, letters barely legible, but providing and awakening memories none-the-less.

this morning i danced

distraction

aahahrrr aahahrr. looking up, a formation of geese flew past the windows in perfect formation. nature pushes though the confines of this building. computers and financial worries are intercepted, stopped by feathers and air and weightless, immediate smiles. i remember the huge migration of last month. thousands looking like black ribbons; shifting, and shifting again against a blue canvas. there were v's within v's. the car was moving forward, plowing ahead, breaking sound in two. for while it seemed we were moving at the same speed, going to the same place, where your mother's waiting for you among reeds? my eyes were glued to the sky. angels held me from death.

me?

at this time:

ribbons and balloons. handholding and hair pulling. olive trees and green, cloudy olive oil. mermaid clouds, head-banging, exchanging smiles with "strangers" and eye contact in the dark. the moon in all its stages although i wait for the fullness with much anticipation. stories that make my chest hurt, jokes that make me scream. smiling is good. crying is good. playing with my hands. playing with your hands. earlobes. curls. words. movement. dancing, dancing, dancing. being alone and naked. talking and not talking. travel and concentrating. sewing. trash. boiled potatoes, especially with dill, salt, pepper and yeast (it's what i ate last night). i am into new and old. magical discoveries outside and in. pushing through weirdness and then remembering change is growing. communicating in broken spanish and being enlivened when i am understood, or when i think i understand (because who knows?). soft clothes and no clothes. heat and rain near open windows. music music music music. notes that make me remember...remember what?? only brief flashes or long, sustained feelings of eternity. street food. bowls and spoons. almost anything turquoise. moving of water. subtle bobbing of the ocean when calm. creating creating creating. writing writing. taking photos when i'm scared. dancing when i'm scared (it happened once for real in mexico). intuition. understanding before and after. understanding??? laughter laughter. working working working. riding trains. scenery moving faster than i can see, but not more than i can feel. persimmon trees in fall, in italian fog. places i have never been, yet always have known. power. unexplainable. finding words for thoughts. having sadness explained. finding joy beneath sadness, the deep well.

nameless despite words

it's a new day. i feel my shoulders, my center, my temples. my lips purse in contemplation. keys are pushed, guided into thoughts. my little fingers with stars and silver, they move elegantly at my command, they bring emotion into creation, like tiny trucks filling holes with cement, only to be scratched with the names of teenagers and strange girls with leaves in their hair.

you carried the signs of fall like a masterpiece. marc chagall held between thumb and index. i gasped at the sight, beauty almost always moves too quickly to catch. portable stained glass, i wish i could bathe in colors infused with sunlight, warm myself with rainbows. but impossible is that wish. how do i swim in frozen matter without getting cut? how many kisses does cobalt require to open up and receive a silvery body?

the houses in mexico spoke the same language. i would press myself against blue walls, breasts tried to hug the corners, wished they could talk with color. that desire was almost nameless, it spoke of something still is hard to mention. but we pressed together, despite clothes and pedestrians, my face against stucco, lips breathing in aqua azul.

you were right

the pounding in my chest, feeling like i may explode, thinking i might die from energy exposure.

i sigh and the center of my chest hurts

with closed eyes

i think of BART and moving trains

the colors moving like blurred visons, esctatic in memory

green and blue melting like water on a page

i look at you across the train, you sit on the roof

wind moves through your hair, bugs in your teeth.

the rainbows of this existence flow from your armpits

and make braids in mine

deodorant is not necessary. i have followed your scent for years, since civilization began.

moving across deserts, my bleeding feet turned sand into mandalas and murals depending on the country. i once wore silks and bathed with roses. i swallowed red and licked my lips from white paint.

working for energy

headphones on...

sounds hit

they move quickly inside small passages

leaving marks and kisses, sometimes deep scratches and eternal memories

i have marked my body with trees and mermaids

great roots that look like lovers intertwined

my memories have created my stamps

i cling

i claw to remember, to dig out of the deepness into which i was born

i met a little girl who sees mermaids and helps them escape sharks

she does this despite her fear and sometimes she hides behind the rocks

i smile as she recounts their singing, it is true

i was

my hand closes around my breast and i guide myself to sleep