Truth Absolutely


“For in grief nothing “stays put.” One keeps on emerging from a phase, but it always recurs. Round and round. Everything repeats. Am I going in circles, or dare I hope I am on a spiral?

But if a spiral, am I going up or down it?

How often — will it be for always? — how often will the vast emptiness astonish me like a complete novelty and make me say, “I never realized my loss till this moment”? The same leg is cut off time after time.” – C.S. Lewis, A Grief Observed 

old poems, poetry


Itchy fingers. Black mail. Dooms day? Maybe.

     Ponytails, curly ones

     they dangle in front of me like spaghetti noodles.

Remember those panties you had when you were little?

The pink ones with the ruffles on the back?

You loved them, remember? 

Please remember. Please.


Well anyways I threw them out 

with yesterdays garbage.


They were tired. 

old poems, poetry


futuristic heartbeats will sound more like police sirens, i think.

the hair on the back of my neck won’t relax when I feel your eyes on me,

they must not understand how in love I am… though, don’t you think?

I wish she would stop talking,

I wish she would stop talking.

my intentions. (guilty).

her voice is too quiet to be heard, I don’t want to hear it.

off with her head.


old poems, poetry


too much coffee

make friends

spend time being pretty

make prettier babies

raise them,

ruin them,

start over?


please tell me your secrets 

then i’ll feel better.

hopefully we’ll die young 

miss all those wrinkles 

lipstick on cigarettes and

 coffee cups.

let’s avoid dirty dishes,

old heartbreaks 

and lonesome strip malls.

     LISTEN! those trees we smell, they will fulfill you.

     Those shifting clouds, they will uplift you.

     LISTEN! to those notes she makes 

     with her strong delicate fingers…

she’ll do it anyways

even when you’re not around.

I wish those hands were mine. 

liz acid 2002

old poems, poetry


Many miles, downhill blues.

I have a material home to lay in,

the windows show me shadowed mountains.

Hungry for… I’ve lost it…

I’m going out West for those open spaces

those sweet touches 

of air, and on and on.

Over and over I loose my concentration

and then I have to start over.

But its nice anyhow…

I feel you from underneath my covers, tucked away there;

its necessary i guess.

Talking is old news, I think we should start humming,


we would remember then.

old poems, poetry


un-heard of consequences,

remixed remains of wicked


heart-felt exaggerations re-peat-

ing on big sreens,

unsympathetic foot-shifting on broken cement sidewalks,

re-writing history into easily

stored bite-sized


buttering toast with switch-

blades, re-painting used up

spaces, using popsicle-

sticks as building-blocks,


ing off sideways smiles to re-

create symmetry, floating down

stream on sarcastic

glimpses… waiting for

a moment…