Ladykiller

You blamed your lewd acts on society and pornography,
claiming 'not guilty' until your bitter, dirty, tragic end.
Illegitimate child -- probably the product of incest.
You psychoanalyzed yourself and came up with no answer.
"Why? How could he have done those things?!" Those evil, derelict deeds.
You smiled, shrugged your shoulders, reminiscing about the stark gore,
the girls, the crowbar, the chase, the murders, the rapes and the blood.
The blood -- you wanted to bathe in it, wash yourself clean with it,
your past, your history, wishing to be a star, deity.
You renounced God and humanity, creating effigies
from burned and battered flesh, from the remains of true innocence.
Your will, your choosing, your destiny -- a self-made man; monster.
In your final hour you accepted Jesus Christ, your savior.
The Governor of Florida, your real God, turned a deaf ear,
as your sister-mother wept for you, her son, her little boy.
The world sighed relief as you left, then went on with its business.
Just a flicker, after all, a meaningless flicker in time.

Ceramic Elephants

I wish my life was like an Urban Outfitters catalog --
at my age, a ridiculous desire, yet still, I want it.
Those kids look like they're having so much fun with their records
and their beer tumblers emblazoned with the words 'slut' and 'douchebag'.
Those crazy kids with their ivy-league educations and their
summers spent in The Hamptons, or in Morocco or Paris.
They gallivant in cut-off's, forced shabby chic, with the back-up
of Daddy's credit card and Mommy's guilt from being away,
never fully present (extended cocktail hours, pill-popping).
Those kids, poor orphans, are forced to reinvent themselves through style,
modern art, macrame plant holders, ceramic elephants,
marijuana cookbooks, paisley-print sheets, fruit-scented perfume,
Indian-inspired jewelry, and pomegranate candles.
They create a space, all their own, in their dormitory rooms,
hosting parties on their magic carpets, drinking from tumblers.
They make toasts, and eat hors d'oeuvres; Life stretches out in front of them,
glossy, immaculate, full of endless possibilities.

Energy

Energy...clean sweeps of it.
Dark bundles of it, lurking.
Light silk feathersweeps of it,
meaningful glances of it.
Energy -- use it up, fast!
Usurp it, demolish it!
You are made of it -- an itch
will never be satisfied.
Energy -- stand up for it,
celebrate it while you can,
it's breaking up, it's breaking.
You depend on it, always.
Energy...it's a fool's game,
nothing but a foolish game
one you are destined to play
simply because you are here.

Tell Me What is Real

You've built your life upon complaints,
stacked neatly, one on the other.
Negativity ruminates,
boiling over -- hot, sticky mess.
It has to be pushed down, controlled;
like everything else, it grows.
Before long it would overtake
your walls like a cloying ivy
wrapping you up like a mummy,
while you make lists, judge, criticize.
Your comparisons won't save you,
neither will your weight, your money,
your husband or your fancy house.
They are all as illusory
as you -- the inside of your mind.

Rancho Tarzanadu: Helicopter Nightmare

Miss Linda had fallen asleep on her bed with the lights on and the sliding glass door open, exhausted. Her sheer lavender curtains rushed into the room in a torrid frenzy as the whir of a helicopter whipped immediately outside of her window, hovering at eye level outside her bedroom balcony. From a loudspeaker came a man's even voice: "National Security Agency! We are just observing...go about your normal business."

Miss Linda tossed and turned. She shouldn't have had that third cherry-vanilla soda with vodka. She tried to wake herself, but she was in the in-between state, in a tug-of-war with the dream world and the waking world.

There was a gust of desert winter air as the helicopter lifted itself up above the house and flew away, almost indecipherably. It was there for only seconds, long enough to realize it was there, and then it was gone into the blackness and the distant stars, slipping in between the folds of the night.

Miss Linda dreamed that she sat up straight in bed, and re-arranged her hair and smoothed out her bedclothes and blankets. Paperwork had blown all over her floor...mail and notes, and postcards and magazines and bills and post-it notes and the pages of books and seed packages and tissues and empty paper bags.

Marlon Brando came to Miss Linda in this dream, dressed in a pin-striped Zoot Suit, cigar in hand. He advised: "You must never intervene with humans and you must always entangle. Jesus, I just want to fear my own truth. Cut, and it's here...a snail. On the edge of a razor."

He took a breath.

"Believe in One Day. There was a apace. The Gardener had land and steak. Black motorcycle. The egg farmer's in the ocean. It's a day pulled. And for penguins. Ever read 'The Merchants'? It winds muscle. You're staying. Me. You will be called to the left out of justice. It's The Wonder Twins. I understand. My son, try living faster than the speed of light. But you, mad men, will still be lying and I will be sober."

He paused.

And finally: "He went as mad as a March Hare."

Miss Linda awoke, for real, disgruntled. None of it made any sense at all.

Or, obviously, the question would be: did it?

Rancho Tarzanadu: Dark Hour

Miss Linda was in a bind. Manuel was being held at Guantanamo Bay, indefinitely, for questioning.

Little Johnny and the male FBI agent had both disappeared into the Vortex, without a trace, sliding in 'accidentally' on cardboard boxes.

The FBI had obviously pulled the funding for Little Johnny's stay after his disappearance occurred, and almost worse, the daily prepared gourmet meals had been halted as well. Miss Linda was a horrible cook, and piece-mealing meals together the best she could. Basically she was eating whatever was lying around in the refrigerator. She ate lot of peanut butter sandwiches, cheese sandwiches, and scrambled eggs. She wasn't much cut out for 'roughing it', but desperate times called for desperate measures.

She was having strange, psychedelic dreams that were a residual effect from the energy work she had been practicing. She felt a growing blurred line between this world and the next with more and more clarity. Although that didn't lend itself very well to sleep, so she was also tired. Very, very tired.

She had also lost her other boarder, the Psychic, who left on a whim one afternoon unexpectedly to follow the cloud patterns to the Native American Gaming Casinos. She left Miss Linda a note written in red lipstick on a paper towel in the kitchen (the last paper towel on the roll, by the way). It said, "Sorry...gotta go!" Miss Linda understood, but now she was left alone and almost penniless, without a solid plan of action.

She missed Manuel. He drove her crazy.

She was afraid. She might actually have to get a job.

She would have to be her own boss, of course.

She began to contemplate her options, while chewing on a stale slice of dry burned toast accompanied by a glass of lukewarm tap water.