Lola Montes Says

I am building a poem
First I gave it two guns
Then a bullet, a thief
And brown cliffs in to run

I gave it a turtleneck sweater to wear
And a woman to ward off the cold
They came laughing back after selling her hair
Freshly shorn, empty handed, bold

I gave it the symbol
Of all of my secrets
All regrets and guilt wrapped up in fire
The fire it shone
And it shone
And it shone
And it told me to call it a liar.

When I came to I gathered my things together
Not knowing if I was asleep or awake
Or if I was in waking dream
I scanned the horizon for a white light
And there was none
So I continued to struggle with my bags
And I was working a piece of green glass
Out of my bare foot
Down the way a bit
My arms strapped with bags
My poor lovely peeling hatbox
A footstool
That’s my problem
I never could choose just one hat
Imagine a person who could choose just one hat
No my hatbox is full of the most recent accumulated clutter
Of the finest labels
I never wear the right shoes
And I’m not the person he fell in love with
I thought I was still, but better.
At least from his perspective.
I had my shiny moments.
We still shine together.
When we stretch out to touch each other.

You said holding me was the only thing keeping the blood inside your chest

You do things too late my love

The blood has been gushing from my chest all over the checkerboard floors of our home for years now

While I tended your wounds carefully

From stepping on the shards of broken glass I leave in my wake

Sure

You held me fetally while I spun into oblivion with mares of shower stall cutting

And red scarf hangings

A difficult man to handle I thought

No I didn’t

I thought I was a glass breaker with a cleanup team of one and an unfolding bank account

To pay my therapist

To convince me to stay out of hospitals

With dreaded locked doors.

Then

One evening your frail translucent colony paused the television

And said

We need to talk.

My love.

And burst into a flock of carrier pigeons with fortune cookie messages

Platitudes and bent truths

And she packed all she needed into her car

With the dead battery in the rain.

And she recongealed her flock and electrified her world

Co-opting all of our mutual friends

Leaving her legs and tail severed and dead on the street

Driving to the nearest dive bar

Seeking refuge

Looking up with nothing to wag from the dim light of a basement window

At herself torn in two

Liberated and grinning.

I will eulogize myself until my death.
What am I?
The Universe?
Bigger?
Smaller?
Yes.
And
no.

The scary part is there are mirrors.
And somehow we’ve got the ability to interpret their messages
or somehow we <you> gave off too much heat at the beginning at birth
and became crumpled papers in the wastepaper basket
black and white with
increasingly
little
grey

refusing to die
insisting on a magnetism not yet discovered
which will carry you off to a world where
color has a meaning
and believing in war
has meant the realization of
a whole new neurological or physical spiritual hybrid
plane
And you will speak in tongues
And wear your heart on your sleeve
And you will give yourself away like it’s going out of style
And you will become the deformed, the mute, the wailing and the Faithful.
And you will be a stranger to your neighbor.

Curtain UP! Light the Lights.

We have nothing to hit but the daily

labouriously sinking

bottom of things.

Waiting to get to that bottom of things.

To finally scrub off the cling of cellophane air

And the makeup deposits that are becoming bionic.

I came here from the future – is what I would think. if I ever became a God

When you stare into your coffee-shop coffee, do you really think?

“This is a deep cup.? And swim in the black ripples of your own reflection.

Or are you wondering how ponderous you appear on the store security cameras?

But that’s the thing. That’s it.

Because you have these big interferences and confidences

The big questions that we slog through moment by moment

trying not to disturb our bruises

All of us walking in one direction or another diagonal piece of a plane

Where around here we look into each other’s eyes and if we are the yin to the partner’s yang

if we decide to choose to learn and reevaluate and learn again what our partner has become

on each new moment

To learn the bravery realizing the miracle of  sucker punches and suicide pacts.

Oh! We have finally met an extraterrestrial,

and when it is a mutual first encounter

It will make you both howl with laughter and cry with unworthiness.

And when it has been experienced limitless times by the same group or team together

People start getting end-displays and there becomes a market necessity for Herf Jones.

And so this is how it will be – so shall we do.

Lay down pavement  piles of our brothers and sisters like rattlesnake scales

The revolutionaries and I

Shifting against each other’s skin making energy from

Our individual parilysis like static

We tighten and advance against our neighbors

Eliminating personal bubbles

And we block the pathways of the tanks and fire bombs

With our spontaneous orgy.

With the frantic passing and tossing of books.

A sky frenzied and the sound of pages a gray pelican, fidgety.

We teach our kids, you know, every day.

“You are a unique artifact created by a benevolent God who protects you and doesn’t care that you’re lying, obese, a bully, a thief or if you touched your little sister.”

Parents who do this hate their parents as well as their own children

Because they chose to download and install an operating system that

Could not recognize patterns or draw lines between

The matching ones.

It is cruel to lie to spare someone’s feelings.

If this is true I have been a very cruel

Callous individual inside.

It sucks that color blind people can’t become Air Force or Navy pilots.

And have many poorly matched outfits some days.

Sometimes I think I’m being tested

To see how willing I am to break the rules

Someone wants my estimate on the value of life

Funny because your old metal is too weak to penetrate me.

I don’t sleep,Lola. Please turn off the webcam and go put on some clothes.

Lola,

You can end almost any joke at all with the phrase omigod I forgot to take my medication for the orgy we’re all about to have right here in the street! Because either way we all end up rubbing shifting all one of us up against the others at once and none of us feeling the desire to invent apologies to make someone else (just there even in the mirror that counts too) surrender their lands and airspaces universes all in bubbles and begging to get in line first in a tragic holocaust of a stampede all to get a peek at one line on our own genome which refuses submit itself to the purges of records. Like, people start seeing things on expensive 3D Tv’s - which are crap (something I believe mostly because you tell me so Ryan - and I don’t mind it. Because if I had the money - I would hand it to you and tell you to place most of my bets. And you wouldn’t know that ou were being robbed blind by me. That I couldn’t think up yet a way to feel deserving of you. We both make static at the right times like parts of the same machine or circuit that have been torn apart by an explosion but in the act of becoming debris created niches which only the other could fill. OH! And so I do accuse you of wonderful witchcraft - however have I gotten here? To a place where the only place I want to go is to tell someone about our love but I can’t get away from being in your glow long enough to start making room for new memories. 
Anna

It all starts with time travel x media x political/marketing rhetoric 
= everything infinitely becoming blacker and whiter-er-eir simultaneiously realizing that SPELLING DOESN”T MATTER. It reminds me of digitally peeling a banana with a danger or a paintbrush . Like a wavelength of musk cast beside my shadow and Everyone knew that was the cue to stop and 
focus on a cock. 

most importantly Anna Jackson does not play boys against girls - I just notice that if I’m watching my life on a slow monitor patterns would show that sex tendency = god. a forced hand of good and evil infinite war death blossom birth ever inwardly exploding and outwardly sucking.

I call living constantly seducing the hidden cameras while knowing all the while I AM the hidden cameras.

Today I drew a red square on my left inner wrist.

HI! People like to be greeted. 
I am a nice person is a funny thing to say 
We are all - shit I lost it.
Cause my phone was wringing.
I missed 4 calls and I;m honest to him about who they are from.
Collections for student loans.
WITH my little brother the cancer victim as the cosigner.

Ryan is typically not open to show me when/if he thinks less of me. Ryan makes me believe he would not make fun of me in any circumstance, unless he knew it would make me laugh or have an orgasm. So I really can’t read him, as well as I know him, and I love it. It makes me feel like I could fall backwards spiraling into eternity because he would be my center and my stabilization and I could just enjoy the ride. 

I want to live my life from now with as few edits as possible, and grow and grow huge and immortal into until in a cracking of a shell and a birth I become death itself. Everything is the same and it’s own opposite, and there are endless everythings expanding and contracting according to patterns, most of we miss because it is air and science fiction. And I love my life. And I am all and I am nothing and all silmutaneously - so there is nothing to fear but fear itself. I have hope - everyone gets a happy ending. And not. I can’t tell the secret of it because it is like a fugue. I wonder about ending up in a mental ward for this. I feel more like I’ll end up having won the lottery. I feel happy. 

Is a dark forest with dark wooded trees that I can’t see the tops of
so it is dusky
And a ground covered in pale pink leaves
And sometimes there is a fox
And a toad and a stag and an indescribable bird
with long legs but the body of a peacock and the head of a swan
and she changes from white to black depending on her mood
And the fox’s name is Sarah.
And sometimes she lets me touch her fur.
They used to all have names
and there used to be a pond for the frog
but the shadows have deepened
I’ve been spending so much time in the sky on my flying carpet
I’ve missed too many appointments with my friends
And I’ve forgotten now.
They used to all have messages to give to me.
I hope I saved them somewhere.

You don’t have an owl problem until you have an owl problem.
The first time I was baptized I kicked water from the baptismal all over the choir members.
The second time I was baptized my heart stayed above water the whole time
With a diamond solitaire ring wrapped around it
You can tell a shark when it walks into a room
Because it won’t look it the flowers or smell them
It will pick up the vase and remark at the emblem on the bottom of it
And it won’t be able to see itself in the mirror
You can tell me when I walk into a room
Because I will be looking you in the eyes
And looking myself in the mirror
At the same time
And I will have a camera somewhere taking a photograph of it happening
So I can examine how it all was later
And write a poem about it
So that maybe someone will look at me back
And make me feel that I mattered
While I was here hanging around and breathing

A room full of thirty of me black and red and white and brown colored hair
number twenty two caresses number three and holds her burnt hands under cold water
while number twenty five dances under a strobe light
every one of us teaching the other some lesson from some other point in time 
number twenty seven falls down and is cutting off all of her hair and number twenty seven comes to help her get back up again
number thirty isn’t eating anymore she just looks out the glass window at the hollow sky
with number fifteen in her way tap tap tapping on her shoulder
number sixteen is just putting honey in her hair and hanging dead flowers from the ceiling
while number six and number nineteen shuffle about trying to keep the peace by agreeing with everyone
number twenty nine lurks around the door waiting for newcomers and telling fortunes
numbers twenty and twenty eight are scanning the personals and taking out restraining orders
while trying to mend the wounds of the children
number seventeen is telling stories about going out past curfew and smoking cigarettes
out the open window of a speeding car
and all the things that are new and shiny
numbers five, seven, eight, nine, and ten are looking out the window towards the mountains
and asking what is behind them or wondering how they could get there
maybe by climbing very far
past the bookshelves by the record player numbers eleven, twelve, thirteen, and fourteen are looking in the mirror making wishes
around the corner number eighteen sits a queen without her tiara glassy eyed all in white with her fingers shoved into her ears
and her makeup just ruined
holding her hand is number seven in her other hand she holds a glossy notebook full of poems written to god in red ink
number two is stumbling through the legs of the crowd and is picked up occasionally  by number nineteen or number twenty nine
number four is taking the dogs for a walk around the foyer
under the dining room table number nine is making her strange noises in the dark very loudly
waiting in the corner excitedly young number one rocks in her cradle alone
and every mind waits and wonders about number zero and number 723. 

What are my deepest innermost thoughts? I believe, I spend a great deal of time, lately, contemplating what the voice of my inner narrator sounds like. I believe that god cannot be found outside but within, and built upon that notion to be truly spiritual one would have to define oneself as “a self-reflective god”. God being defined as whatever part of us is eternal, a piece of a larger infinitely large and infinitely small source of being.  So I try to characterize whether I “think” in words and sentences, or rather in “felt senses” that my inner narrator quickly shapes into words and sentences. I wonder about ambition, war, growth, the ability to change, polythiesm. And all while being a mirror for someone else, some other lost god, whose skin I have the honor of slipping into. Why do some gods require praise, and others none? Why do the majority of gods externalize the idea of spirituality altogether? Is there something we are afraid to see, because it seems very elusive to me. The ability to say - my inner narrator speaks in my own voice, or the voice of my grandmother, or the voice of ghandi. But I can make the sentences and the voice talks but is still so hard to define. And then I spend time thinking about what is behind the voice, and the complexity of it, and the limitations of words and language. And I think about evolution, and I want to live.

A kind man kept a baby bat in a shoe until it grew and grew and flew away

We made boxes of cardboard with holes in them to see the eclipse and not be blinded

By the light

As it shone a dot reflection of our sun for us children

During our Indian summer

A dot

We don’t have to make boxes now we have photos on the internet

We have cobwebs of information

Pigs that dance with tigers

Cut off pieces of personality to share

I have 243 photos of myself hanging on my own wall

And guilt free blessed crystals to hang from around my rear view mirror, wholesale

I once wove a necklace from around the neck of a friend with string and bits of her hair

We went searching for saguaro ribs to build a fortress

I never could get swim goggles to keep water out of my eyes

I would have horrible stinging

And stay in the shallow end squinting

And all the years suddenly turned blue

And dropped down into a bottle like grains of sand

Pieces of hair and twine

There I was in awe of your room

And the wall of sound between us and them

And an intruder I was new again

Intruders together

They built a church to us

Put a star on the top of it

And so we got to running

Running forever

Running nowhere

Wicked jealous

Tumbling headlong into that bottle of years

Toward the tomb

Swearing we’d knuckle our way out

I’ve got this crease like a scar inside my right brow

I’ll put it in an envelope and send it to you so you can see

I built a cocoon to keep the creases out but it’s failing

A shoddy shield

Maybe it way all the lyin’ made the time look smoother than it really was

But the bottle is getting full of dust

I got to spend some time in a room with an old fashioned fan

There was a mirror with a yellow flower

A round mirror

And drawers made of yellow wicker

Books all around written in a foreign language

I always did love reading

I can say, with a fair guess, that whoever you are I used you as my footstool

My soul has spots on it and little grotesque bumps as does yours

My tale doesn’t excuse my moments of menace

And I slipped in and out of you like so many pairs of gloves

I believe I will see snow again fortune willing

And put new emblems on my window pane

I have hopes of that room where I will find my own pair of gloves

And a bar surrounded by comrades

I will never shake the six am on a sunday walks down vacant Tucson streets

And it is with reluctance that I leave my family and all I have known

I have a red shirt that is perfect but for missing one red button

I hope to one day win a staring contest

And I secretly wish for a person to see the flecks of gold in my green eyes

So I sift through my scattered thoughts

The hitching post at the amusement park with my Grandfather

My haunted dreams within dreams

The boots I wish I had

never sold

as some things are priceless and you cannot know how much so until they are years gone

These bonds of blood that I hold so close yet so easily sever

And the dilemma of sentience

I saw sheep born here

I have an antler I discovered in the desert and no one will take it away from me

My insides are in ribbons

I have been a stray person for years

With a limp

resignation to take what is handed to me.

Like so many cups of tea.

I stand in contrast visually

While I hide in a corner in silence

Watching that guy

Coming up with prettier names for fear

Phony

Lacking transparency

While wearing authenticity like a stolen badge

My lungs are filling with tar

I never drink water

My body is on this spinning ball hardened by scars by no coincidence

I can see through the eyes of broken things

The insides of watches

And car crushers