Untitled (as of now)

i come down,
beneath your frame.
there is an undertow,
i unfold onto my back
not without pain.
your feet are washed,
my hair smells of lily
and you of leaf and myrrh.

i hear the others searching
i am crying for my mother
she is a whore on Linden St.
and i her only penance .
This man has taken me for love
and hers for twenty two.
i am subject to his every want
in the binding sweet and new.

gently up, he pulls my hand
and one foot upon the other
this place is sacred in my mind
i cannot leave it, he beckons me further.
i follow nimbly down the Lane
there is nothing behind me to follow,
my hand small inside, i walk beside
my captor, my Lord, my lover.

~acs

Poser Vegan Veggiekins...u do not fool me:)

I have a question. Why do Vegans, and some Vegetarians, eat things that are designed to taste like animals? Really...this is a bit of a drastic metaphor, but is that not akin to a pedophile watching animated kiddie porn? No one is getting hurt, and the satisfaction is not exactly the same...but they are willing to deal with it.
If you are truly concerned about the little creatures...eat veggie or vegan...purely. A soyburger shaped and flavored like McRib is a fucking joke to me...If you are claiming animal love.
I happen to know that the Garden Veggie Patties (which so happen to taste like Vegetables) are freakin delicious.

I have gone back and forth between my animal issues and my insight is this: I know we are supposed to eat them because they eat us. Even your cute little kitty cat will feast on your eyeballs and nose-smeller when you die if left unattended for a few days. Personally, I am sticking to raw foods and seafood as much as possible with the new year. I have been for a long time but this is just a gateway for me, I tend to be ritualistic and New Years are important to me.

my.favorite.poem...ever.ever...

A Child Said...What is the Grass?
Walt Whitman

A child said, What is the grass? fetching it to me with full
hands;
How could I answer the child?. . . .I do not know what it
is any more than he.

I guess it must be the flag of my disposition, out of hopeful
green stuff woven.

Or I guess it is the handkerchief of the Lord,
A scented gift and remembrancer designedly dropped,
Bearing the owner's name someway in the corners, that we
may see and remark, and say Whose?

Or I guess the grass is itself a child. . . .the produced babe
of the vegetation.

Or I guess it is a uniform hieroglyphic,
And it means, Sprouting alike in broad zones and narrow
zones,
Growing among black folks as among white,
Kanuck, Tuckahoe, Congressman, Cuff, I give them the
same, I receive them the same.

And now it seems to me the beautiful uncut hair of graves.

Tenderly will I use you curling grass,
It may be you transpire from the breasts of young men,
It may be if I had known them I would have loved them;
It may be you are from old people and from women, and
from offspring taken soon out of their mother's laps,
And here you are the mother's laps.

This grass is very dark to be from the white heads of old
mothers,
Darker than the colorless beards of old men,
Dark to come from under the faint red roofs of mouths.

O I perceive after all so many uttering tongues!
And I perceive they do not come from the roofs of mouths
for nothing.

I wish I could translate the hints about the dead young men
and women,
And the hints about old men and mothers, and the offspring
taken soon out of their laps.

What do you think has become of the young and old men?
What do you think has become of the women and
children?

They are alive and well somewhere;
The smallest sprouts show there is really no death,
And if ever there was it led forward life, and does not wait
at the end to arrest it,
And ceased the moment life appeared.

All goes onward and outward. . . .and nothing collapses,
And to die is different from what any one supposed, and
luckier.

My 6 word auto-biography...

There are so many things you think you want remembered about your life, but if you can only
choose 6 words it really puts things into perspective.


"Saved as many creatures as possible." Amber
Hart-Sinclair

Pickney Lane

Pickney Lane

I went by way of the old house this morning
her windows were gaping and warning to me
the stench of the mold and the tepid draft
were foggy memoirs of the chain and your needs.

The oak and the plum tree are coy as well
they know the secrets and they share them with glances
the house looks sadly to me from the field
I could love her, but not in these circumstances.

The earth is somber underneath this vessel
and I can only stand at the edge of that earth
the house longs for me to embrace her
but she keeps her direction, she knows it would hurt.

I went by way of the old house this morning
I am haunting this place, yet still alive.
Your spine and your breath are locked away safely
so the house and the plum tree can smile if they cry.

~acs

A Field Alone

A Field Alone

i would drink the water, as it is.
unmoving and listless
a well forgotten
deep inside ground where not only rain has fallen
where lovers will not travel.

i would press my cheek
silent into the ground
and let the water in
through the corner of my mouth
past my lips, unacquainted

this water that they dread
and advert their stare
has called to me, and i have answered
it has led me to it and i wait
pure, unidentified.

the bitterness, they lied
is sweet.
the filth is honey drifting in nectar
i sing to the sun softly
i sink inside this damp shangrila.

if i cannot drink
i will let it roll off of my tongue
across my cheek, it pales my blush
i hold the taste
the sun dries the salt to my eye.
~acs

Reasons to Cry

Reasons to Cry

Our thoughts do nothing but lead us on
always alone and never rehearsed
we are survivors paying the others price
down this sticky highway we fly
remote control lovers,
making love by the numbers
moment by moment we use each other
but in time it seems that we have discovered
fate is something that cannot be changed.

War remains upon the wind
mindless reasons they defend
lorries in waves upon the Strand
like soldiers, no mindset, red the sand
wings of terror that souls should fear
shells of lovers with death to bear
i see them, my veil begins to tear
earth to ash and i don't care.

My lord, my love, he stands nearby
sweet his wisper, soon to die
this love so easy to defy
my love, we have many reasons to cry...

~acs

Wanderlust (and an acausal dream)

Wanderlust

pretty soon
your body will shift from the horizon
and fall into mine.
i see you..crazy cat
and what your eyes are looking at
i know that you see me
making me dirty
your belly dancing gypsy.

the trade winds
are merely ghosts of war
profitless, meaningless tokens i carry
nails like ice and a blade to my lip
just to grasp once the flesh of my hip.
love is possessed, sold and bought
my hands outstretched making no sense
i add it up, i break it down
i am nothing but a spirit...a human experience.

anger awaits and freedom to cry
a twist of the wrist and a reason to die
but when worth and truth and love abide
by rules that mend my smile
i become a slave to imagined happiness
a prisoner to these photographs
yet free i remain because it is the same
i pour you down my throat, the original sin
i keep the secrets safe inside
this binding makes me your virgin.

~acs

~*epitome*~

Epitome

i wish for you Sweet Sundays, my love,
and freedom from every vacant memory
that finds you where you are.
i wish for your Song to rise out of your chest
like a river and for your mouth to find
the purest breasts that have never been lain against.

i wish for the salt that you hide in your eyes to spill Honey,
and your vagueness to clarify within a dream
and spin round our bodies until sickened with truth.
i wish for all wants to cease and for time, and fear
to disarm themselves and close the circle of their cruel spell.

i wish for Silence of my thought, and Stillness of my blood.
from a distance i am close and in your arms i remain your birthright.
lovers and dead men, Kings and fools, Vagrants, liars, Virgins...
they are writing about it, and singing about it, and killing themselves for it.
For what love? Not for this...this love is the first in all of time.

~amber hart-sinclair

Enchanté

I love blogging. Ever since I was a little bitty girl I've had a diary..when I got bigger I had spiral notebooks and now we have cyber diaries... Mae West had a saying: Keep a Diary and one day your diary will keep you. Also, I need somewhere to start putting my poetry into. So here we are:)