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


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


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’


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



The table is set for you.



My body is prepared for you.



The legs are opened for you.



Like milk and honey for you.



Like wine and bread for you.



The closest you'll get to a 



The closest you'll get to


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.

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