What is beauty for
What do I do with it
When there is no one to share it with
But enjoy it myself
And wallow in a vain existence
What is the purpose
Without a mirror
I cannot even see my beauty
A single stemmed blossom cannot kiss the other
buds on the rose bush
I may as well have been ugly
For what does it matter
Emotion and mental growth
Knowledge and creativity
Health and inspiration
Are the only things I need
Not this beauty
Not this pink blushing flower
In a bud vase
On a table
Closed behind windowless walls
And I look to you
I see your eyes
After the gin
I see through your eyes
And it breaks my heart
Like just you and I see
(And the rest of those… artists)
I see through
To you
From the stars
I feel passionate tonight
Out here with all these stars
Alone
What the fuck is going on on Saturn tonight
What the fuck is going on on Jupiter
All those moons
Is that storm still raging
The moon is
Blue and half lit
Feeling like romance or tragedy
Drama for sure
A long kiss or a long last look
Tears or a broken heart taking someone to their
Knees
Me, either way, longing for touch
My heart pounding
Wishing you or you or you were here
I’m standing here drunk on wine
Cold in a pair of slippers
With no socks
Craning my neck back
In the driveway of my parents’
Home
Who is out there looking back at me
Wondering what the fuck is going on here
Is that storm still raging
It is
It really is
He comes out, in a bathrobe
Or was he here the whole time
Across the street
Staring up like me
Feeling alone, but actually not
Feeling some type of passion
From the stars
Los Angeles
is entitled
New York
is pretentious
Feeling desperate
Like sinking in water
With tingling and growing lungs
Bursting for air
Hands gripping for the white caps
Hovering above
And running from me
Feet pushing off the mass of gravity
As it presses me anyway
Pushing me down
And down
And down
Dancing body flailing for life
Feeling desperate
I just want to float
I just want to swim
Come.
Eat.
The table is set for you.
Come.
Take.
My body is prepared for you.
Unconditional.
Love.
The legs are opened for you.
Nourishment.
Sweet.
Like milk and honey for you.
Quenching.
Filling.
Like wine and bread for you.
Come.
Drink.
The closest you'll get to a
Miracle.
Come.
The closest you'll get to
God.
In the mornings
I'd step out onto those sun-faded rocks and
Feel the sting of the heat beneath my feet.
Fruitless olive branches,
Squirrel-grounded avocados, and
One giant orange tree
Cast dark shadows on the chalky ground.
The sweet and light fragrance of
The orange blossoms
Pressed against my lungs from the
Shallow breeze.
But it was deep,
Deep enough to lure me in most mornings
To reach up for ripeness,
Comb between branches, and
Toss the ground for any healthy thing
Left from the birds and bugs.
I'd squeeze and pluck and
The juice would run down my wrists,
Drip off my elbows, and
Hit Henry on the nose.
I'd hold the bottom of my shirt out
Like an apron
And fill it up -
Five, six, seven.
I'd fill it up to make cups.
It took almost four oranges to make a glass.
We didn't see much water in the dry months,
And that season seemed to last years.
But when the mist would come in the mornings,
And the haze would hang until noon,
They'd drip and drool out that honey
Thicker than you remembered it.