j a m i l a

In the morning

In the morning
when my thoughts
are tangible as your skin
soft as your lips
lingering slow as
movements
steep in sleep
in dreams
of when
of when…

When my thoughts
are light
as the foam
on my cappuccino
high on memories
of so many cups ago
while you slept
and I watched
waiting
as I watch, now, waiting

When my thoughts are bitter
as my coffee
that leaves a most
unpleasant taste
in my mouth
as you—
cold, distant, dangerous
unwelcoming of my warmth
—leave a most
unpleasant taste
in my mouth

Conversations with Jesus

I’ve had a few conversations with Jesus -
or at least, with his soul;
Now and then he comes to remind me of this “quest,”
and, ensuing,
my obstinance

One.
which apparently was so stunting at first
that he couldn’t address me,
instead referring to that
face in the window of
the apartment,
all the others in the room,
even that little troll in the corner
(no doubt drawn by my temper).

Two.
No sooner did I acknowledge, I am your pen…
I believe,
and he confessed to me,
I was sent here to ask you that.

Three.
I dreamt I sprouted gigantic angel wings
and he said to me,
You now can speak the language.

Four.
The heart & blood:
God wants peace.
Read, teach, love.

My life is my book.
Not everyone is content with that,

nor the motions of human suffering,
which I expected him to transcend.

He noted my authority and its channel,
pointing at my fastidious tongue
which I refused to bite.
I laughed in his face,

he questioned my humility,

and observed,
Your awakening is going to be, interesting.

It was.

Five.
I swung opened the door.
I invested my guilt.
And in a brilliant play of reversed roles,
I grabbed my knife and began to pierce.

Blood, again?
In my lucidity I noted my misjudgment,
finding myself bent-knees on the ground.

Why must I be down here?
Can’t we just talk about this?

Leave this to me,
he advised, floating above.

Jesus is not much of a conversationalist.

Kill

I’m in a dream
or two
and you came to tell me,
It’s hard
and
kill me

to which I wondered,
Is that your question
or mine?

And I’m contented to say:
I miss you, too

You kissed me in the closet
or tried
Through frocks I catapulted your anger
By the light of my vanity
I pinned you to the ground
and felt the guilt of an incompetent mother

Sometimes

I wish to feel my own fur
against fur

And sometimes I do wish to sink my 1000lb/in² jaw
into your leg

Higher Beings

What a fantastic way of describing Jesus’ plight….

Does much to proffer my decision in rendering Jesus’ character as passive aggressive.

B: “I don’t know… I guess I just feel like, Jesus wouldn’t care.”

If the Bible can be considered a sort of historical document, then Jesus’ mannerisms do much to suggest he was not as much peace and love as we consider him nowadays. He was a serious man. He spoke with authority; his statements appear to boom, indicated by the exclamation points. No doubt he was a bit frightening. Jolting folks into higher truth is not necessarily going to be a pleasant occasion when they are resistant. (And his laments suggest that most people didn’t want to heed his wisdom.)

tomerk:

It was made sure
that each God excelled
at only one thing, one 
discernible trait—

Aphrodite chose love,
Ares War.

The Holy Father knew wrath
inside and out,

Jesus pulled the last straw
and got stuck with
forgiveness.

We wonder why it’s us
agonized with mortality,

us bite-sized, 
well-rounded folk,

who can’t help but
step on each other’s
toes.

A recipe for how I start my day

Ingredients

For stage 1

A bed
Dreams

For stage 2

2 parts steaming water
1 part warm water
1 part cool water
1 tsp tea tree oil
4 cups magnesium sulfate
2 flames
1 bath pillow

For stage 3

1 cup (6oz) cool water
1 primrose oil tablet
1 cup (6oz) boiling water
1 tbsp chai tea
1 tbsp honey
2 tbsp soy milk

Directions

Stage 1

Fold sheets into a pleasing array whilst mulling over dreams.

Stage 2

Light flames. Combine water, tea tree oil, magnesium sulfate into a large bath. Submerge body. Sit 20 minutes.

Stage 3

Consume water with primrose oil tablet. Combine water, tea, honey, soy milk. Sniff. Taste. Savor.

Dear followers,

You are all so interesting.
I’d follow you all (even imfriendswithsluts) (especially imfriendswithsluts) if my days could be filled with tumblr;
my hours consumed with scrolling through posts,
and my minutes marked by each gleeful “like”.

Suffice to say,
I have travel articles to edit;
authors with whom to correspond;
websites to design;
vocals to record;
paintings to create;
words to compose;
projects to market;
clients to please;
and the obligatory numbers to calculate, documents to process, and files to…. file. Yes, even we crazy, hookah-smoking, cat-loving artists must do our taxes.

So I must resort to following you at your web addresses.
And if you, dear followers, are any indication of the kind of person I am, then I am delighted to say:
I am incredibly smart, witty, enriching, sexy, thoughtful and dreamy!

Thank you.

Oh New York

I feel that I have come back from war

and you have changed.

How soft you are tonight

A veritable circuit with small wise creatures

five

You and me, you see
we are about five years old.

Rather than games and caution
I listened, when you said,
I like you

and in mutual agreement,
I packed up my carpet & hookah
to relocate to the space of you.

A space of color,
tails to pull,
dreams to conspire

and wondrous, cryptic
messages to unfold.

I suppose I dream you as my teacher
because I am slightly uncomfortable
being in that position myself.

After all,
I am about five years old.

Objects that have moved (m) / disappeared (d) / appeared (a) / reappeared (r)

and/or moved (m) with no logical explanation:

1. Top to hand mixer (d) (r)

2. Small white disk used to prevent boiling water overflow (m)

3. Cookie (d) (r)

4. Piece of tin foil (m)

5. Rubix cube (m) (solved)

6. Tape measure (m) (r)

7. Puddle of urine (a)

8. Cuts, scrapes, blood (a)

Some would say, Oh, that’s probably just because…

And some would say, Draw a link of white chalk around your security bubble.

One might ask, Aren’t you burning that sage I gave you?

A few might laugh and move on.

I guess I just make a list

and wait patiently for new items to add.

They always come when you’re expecting them.

An active lifestyle. An open mind. A free spirit.

Eyes wide open, breathing the air and feeling weightless over the zephyr in the last moments of a day’s worth, the warm moments of auburn sun going to sleep.

The lull before dusk, the late afternoon stretch that’s life, pulsing and reflecting off glass, the pure surface of polluted water and shimmering of thin strips of light on the beautiful heads of hair, left and right.

Gypsy, sitting on my moon crescent, looking out over the luminous, quaint world, as if one of many, just mine. What shall I do with it?

It’s telling me what to do and thus far I have complied in the most important fashion – the general fashion – and when I stop to reflect I think god, these thoughts are crazy, but isn’t that what they want me to think?

Smiling, now, smiling at my secret. Should I tell them? Should I tell them I don’t care? No.

No, because people want to think you love them. It’s love that makes the world go round, imagined, construed, twisted love, and I’m in this monogamous relationship that makes me incapable of helping the world go round…

Tiger eyes, burning, so I close them and I’m swirling outside of this world, bounding towards a darkness that is my origin.

I can’t explain the pain anymore than I can explain the pleasure.

I was researching “The Opposite House”

in Beijing,

a grandly designed hotel.

When I found this.

There’s been a Death, in the Opposite House

by Emily Dickinson

There’s been a Death, in the Opposite House,
As lately as Today —
I know it, by the numb look
Such Houses have — alway —

The Neighbors rustle in and out —
The Doctor — drives away —
A Window opens like a Pod —
Abrupt — mechanically —

Somebody flings a Mattress out —
The Children hurry by —
They wonder if it died — on that —
I used to — when a Boy —

The Minister — goes stiffly in —
As if the House were His —
And He owned all the Mourners — now —
And little Boys — besides —

And then the Milliner — and the Man
Of the Appalling Trade —
To take the measure of the House —

There’ll be that Dark Parade —

Of Tassels — and of Coaches — soon —
It’s easy as a Sign —
The Intuition of the News —
In just a Country Town —

Sometimes I cannot help but wonder

am I really human, or… something else