PILAR ELIZABETH POEARTiculate.

Ethnically Blue.

Thu, 28 Jan 2010 10:35:00 -0800

"Let them have affordable, quality Healthcare."

Thu, 24 Sep 2009 10:00:00 -0700

“Let them have affordable, quality Healthcare.”

- Pi.

Welcome to my glass house.

Thu, 24 Sep 2009 08:07:00 -0700

Welcome to my glass house.

the new addition a surprise really, seated thereamidst the...

Mon, 13 Jul 2009 23:08:00 -0700

the new addition

a surprise really, seated there
amidst the thorns and blades

of grass blowing breezewise
one of many, really

new additions, planting roots
to grow, to thrive

to wither, and fight
or succumb

folding upon the self
crawling back into dust

y dusk

or, rising like this
armored lotus
replacement

exoskeletal undeniability beautiful

and slightly dangerous

apropos.

Fri, 10 Apr 2009 09:57:00 -0700

a perfect cup of coffee
an equally apropos mug
push scents up & swirling
towards an infinite form
of horizon; these lines—we make up:
with eyes, make sense of all;
these angles… perspectives
pulsing… crossing: swing
like Tarzan
upon ropes of binding
particles from see
to shining sea

"The past waits for no body, the past is but an image. One view, from one stance, where we once..."

Thu, 19 Mar 2009 13:54:52 -0700

“The past waits for no body,
the past is but an image. One view,
from one stance, where we once stood.”

- pilar elizabeth

"Your peace will come when you choose peace."

Thu, 19 Mar 2009 13:50:43 -0700

“Your peace will come
when you choose peace.”

- pilar elizabeth

los angeles : aubade : you fair well

Tue, 16 Dec 2008 14:41:00 -0800

Thick molten snake’s coiling and crossing across the southerly valley; unraveling, thinning, through misted coastalmountain ranges as Luna reaches her silvered sliver higher — still. Night spreads herself blueinkwellblack and traced in filial veins of light—driving.

Not a living camera can capture her images, in justice.

Intelligent Design

Tue, 16 Dec 2008 14:17:00 -0800

God, I love days of feline fancy. One day without work and school is cancelled on account of a greater plan. My time spent hopping along the border of writing my final and whimsy; swimming lapses from laptop to showers head, stopping the bath to perfume my feet, shaving other places twice is nice. Apple lotion and dressing upon the slow crackling hearth because we can’t afford to clean our ducts and the crisp winter is breathing through our walls more efficiently than the generally dominant streaming days of light shuttered out.

Christmas tree lit because my family crashed across our living room floor, down comforters and body pillows tiding them toward Earths Happiest Place and I haven‘t unplugged (their night lights) nor quenched their fire (both) casting fire light shadows jitter buggin our adobe holiday cave. Using extra q-tips after baking chocolate chip cookies. Making a 5-course breakfast spread lavish for the special guests arranged fresh by revolving pots of coffee and silver-needle tea with wild-flower honey.

Holding all of this moment solid in mind. Forced moment strings of benevolent Nature, perfections of being, informing us through coincidental nurture that the universe is built and spins in our favor, despite our timely, linear, indoctrinated resistances.

Wrenched reminder that a kitty is built to preen and nap while dogs must gnaw and rebury their bones.

Be thee light, she says.

Tue, 16 Dec 2008 13:58:00 -0800

Be thee light, she says.

WHILE POURING MR.BUBBLES INTO A WARM BATH

Tue, 14 Oct 2008 20:30:00 -0700

I wish we didn’t need a heart to live he speaks…
why?
Because I don’t ever want us to die—he says with sudden tears in his eyes.
How do we die?
i’m not sure… i’m still trying to figure that one out.
Is it because we get sick?
sometimes, or old… i think our thoughts just go somewhere else, is all. like when someone goes and you can’t see them because they are away, but you still know them.

I don’t ever want you to go away…

To you:

While I am gone
I will look for a way
To honor time well-spent together.
I will build you a book of why
And, fill it with them
I
And you. All
Utterly piercing moments will be etched
In panes of glass…

iWrite.

Wed, 19 Mar 2008 13:25:00 -0700

iWrite in response to the words of others
my madness is not self conspired
it breeds
with the connective nature of this world

your feet speak to me in two-step forward
patterns; i dance with you
in the silent recess of a girl’s voice
projecting

her eyes upon a world

"Even the articulate or brutal sounds of the globe must be all so many languages and ciphers that..."

Wed, 19 Mar 2008 13:25:00 -0700

““Even the articulate or brutal sounds of the globe must be all so many languages and ciphers that somewhere have their corresponding keys—have their own grammar and syntax; and thus the least things in the universe must be secret mirrors to the greatest.””

- St. Paul

Touching softly his thin delicately

Sun, 23 Dec 2007 16:49:00 -0800

sleeping arm, fluid— the arm like tenderness
drawn out of soul cupping dovechild -sleeping-
-evoking this traveling tendernest.
Awe found, nestled wove-in length of armwing’s
fibrous, clean, soft, featherskin. Un-writ. In.
A humming birdsong inside… locked beauty
-You- an un-writ key. Tiny dove
am not I? Good enough to capture tenderly

The essence of what it is to Love— for
that lies in the experience of heaving
chest as gravity pulls his beating heart
in to mine— head nestled between the hollow
in my neck and the curve of my breasts and
we dream of taking to sky… and then we do.

While I was (getting) busy--looking for (The) meaning.

Tue, 18 Dec 2007 15:46:00 -0800

“I have recently considered colloquialism
as cannibal— This method of communion;
bringing some of uscloser while it is
simultaneously tearing u s a ll a
part.” -alixa meli.

With in Language—are many
Hidden languages
Defined by the speaking
Interests and values.

We no longer say how it is,
Relying in stead, upon
Self-defined perceptions
Of Truth.

We stand behind names—
Turning our backsides to reason.
We idolize what is past—
In ways denying us our present
Gifts.

We idolize what has passed—
In ways which demolish
Progress and demonize our neighbors.
We are Un r a vel i ng
Any chromatic weave coming-itself-together.

Un r a vel i ng the process tethering us to any bright future—

All Coming Un d o
ne.

Justice
Vengeance
Destruction

All bleeding in to one… re(a)d… see

With in Language—
Are many hidden languages
Rewriting the same book—
Building walls: book upon piled book—
One on top of an other; each
Book with its interchangeable
Persona’s: “I will make You feel like a dragon, then train them all to fight dragons”… Demons exchange with Obsessions. (What you might reference as a lost love Poem:
I could call an Exercise, or an Exorcism) All of these different names for the same Th(mean)ing.

We are all so progressively cursed; collectively
Dividing our self from ourselves—paradoxymoronically:
Waging wars based upon a misuse of the word—
Becoming ourselves: (The) Weapons of (Mass) Destruction.

And in war there are no winners,
Only glorified losses carrying—
The celebrated losers crowned by—
Pompous death and its pageantry of ritualized destruction… This is US in prayer.

Father forgive US
As we have been given this day—training
To take our words
For granted. Here we are
No longer aware
Of what it is that we are apt to say.
Forgive us our trespasses.

This is the day that the dictionary has become a bible.
This constant battle has transplanted my roots with
In this institution— so many times, to really
Learn this lesson:

I must look beyond the words—
To find the mean in g.
I must fuck with order—
To def(end)ine my self.
And perhaps, by paying
Close enough attention:
I will make it out— in
Tact.

While I was busy—
looking for meaning…
I managed to find my Voice.

God.

Wed, 12 Dec 2007 19:30:00 -0800

You that is my mother
       And my Father—
My house, home and garden—
       You—that is
my raging seas
       blows in bubbles—life with planets as bodies/core—
       You—whom houses
me
              Realize me
                        On levels far beyond these I am able to comprehend of
You—whom is
my house, home and garden—

my raging seas—of indifference—blow
in winds—of change—
diasporic salt’s from waters
reign—
               into rivers— of
       You whom I navigate my dinghy through—and on—and in
              Asking for Arks—in meta
forms

       I who choose to see—You
in my mirror
and my sea—
       I whom Am—My House, and Home—
       Tend in Garden—blowing bubbles into my sons warm and moving bath

I whom houses Me—realizing self and all that is mine
               responsibility—but not Mine
                     Own— I whom am—
a flea—

Your house—Home and guarded Inn;
a soft place

       Land—
in me.

       I am not indifferent.

Pray through winds—of change—
shatter my shifting perceptions—of you—
       that is, and

               I whom build—imaginary ships—the likes
of which
              no storm can touch—carry on—deliver
       Us from You— and to

              You in rapture of the worship of each other.

                     You—I love—
in raged
in-differing
metaphors—

Whom I love in metaphor—
                     Whom I love
In
                     You—Who
am I
                                   Love—
In
                                   Loving—You
who
                                   Am I—in
Love

With
                                   In
You whom
I
Am

                     You

are
Not un-like

me—are me

no
Not Army
So who are you ?

Well, you are We.

You are.

You are Everything.

Back in 2007, my son was 4 years old, and he was, as he is: my main muse. My writing wasn’t very strong back then, but my faith was. I never meant to say that he nor I, individually—were God. I was trying to capture the perfection of being that some moments provide.

I do not get everything right. This doesn’t keep me from trying to preserve my epiphanies.

this vehicle runs on caffeine... coffee is my gasoline.

Tue, 11 Dec 2007 19:30:00 -0800

swallow.

fresh
sweet
cup
of
poe

Ive heard its
Addict ive heard
Its addict ive
Heard its addict
Ive heard its
Addictive

like a fresh cup of Joe

there was fire on the horizon at dusk today…
powdersugared purple mountains
oilpainted
steely grey clouds
heavy
soaked
with silver
rain… soon
to be
snow
and an inch or so of flame,
in-be-sandwiched-tween
and burning my horizon out
in shades of crymson-golden-crystal-gleam

looking—for the line of receding ash
upon those purple peaks, but find none

the swell of waves on superior lake out lined by red crayon
reflecting the fire band dividing heaven and earth
flames which hang in the balance
bobbing the water

360 degrees of splendor
36 degrees
my face is burnt
froze
and tic
tic
what’s up with this doc?

try to let go…

winter warmer by the lake
and fire crackers too—a skating rink propelled by dancetacular 80’s
beats…

do you
ever feel
like an anxious
tic
tic

you know-

tell me..

what’s up
doc?

i can’t wake up without my shot
of caffeine—can’t move without my morning fix

and yet
I sit here
stupefied
wishing
to purge
from my nervetwitchous veins
this cackling elixir of electricity
which powers
this days tic tic twitch

Do not look at me
to validate
you
r sin
s

Do not look at me
to validate you
r time card

Do not look at me
to validate you

I am my own mess to figure out.

Griffith Park.

Mon, 10 Dec 2007 19:30:00 -0800

i wake up this morning to find my midnightblue car
splattered
in
white
paint

or is it snow

?

tiny white dots
powdered sugar-like
dressing my chocolatecarcake

i touch
my running
finger

through
them

and am momentarily inclined
to lick
my finger—all that remains
of ten thousand trees : charred
white
confetti : launched from the tinderbox he
art of Los Angeles

down of Angels
feathers
40 miles
en route
to find

me : a whole county
covered

in scales

of his tory

the antithesis of a comforter
the antithesis of a blanket
of snow
the antithesis of a symbol : confetti

my lungs are heaving : a pity party
my psyche is tinged
with the scorch : of a mother’s sorrow

RantIn Weather.

Sat, 08 Dec 2007 19:30:00 -0800

sometimes I wish the weather would shift gears—returning
long forgotten memories—tossed
coins
ink well and
some thing happens—the chill of you
th returns (with thoughts and eyes upon)—the sound of fall—in
leaves—crunch beneath me—feet
on long walks
home
with feathers—tripping on cracks
in concrete image s
of pools—tiny streams—making
their way from drops
of clouds—to paths— to
see—all—leading to
and from pieces of—me—

a perfect tapestry

interwove in—constant battle
of staying together and
making art of this war
as I fight for my rite to come
undone—i am
the crashing
motion
of oceans
reign
upon
her
shore—in constant
acts of coming un
done due to wish
full shifts in whether—i
am the pitter-patter move
ment of oceans rain up
on her floor—in constant
acts of coming undone and sewing my
self back to get her

sounds

Tue, 13 Nov 2007 19:30:00 -0800

synthetic sounds
in vade : pen e trate

one

must be willing to take
them in picture
this : a man

embracing
his
woman

a man—letting

a muse

elusive
ly that digital soulcoursingthrough making networks of move
me n t and you are the sun the stars and the water molecules all dancing a long
long way

acoustic sounds
embrace : comfort
her

let you ride
on the tangibility—safety
of the restraints on the rollercoaster with out relying on the depth of you
r mind… a man—riding His.

a solid sense of control
negating one will shift you
negating balance

—observations of the presence
of digi tall soul.