this house

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All written content © 2012-2013 Helenna Santos-Levy

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The Stranger

What happened in that moment?

I looked into your eyes for too long, a second past the uncomfortable and into the sublime, flying off the edge in a chaotic dance of breath and death and tears

There is no going back.

The flicker of your lash as it falls against your cheek unleashes an earthquake underneath my feet and I’m devoured whole by the demons below losing limbs and blood and sight

But who needs them, who needs a body when the heart is not an organ but something that exists somewhere in this space between lust and love and longing

And you were just a stranger passing by me on a busy downtown street.

You had grazed my hand and we turned and looked at each other and all of this, all of you seeped into me, and I into you like we had had this moment in a million other lives with a million other I-s and You-s and We-s….

And I’ll forget this moment, like I have already all those times, but not before I find a breath, a heart beat to drink you in and tear you apart and meld us back together.

So until then I beg you.

Fall into this chaotic serene abyss with me.  Enter into me. And crawl into that space that no one else knows, no one else sees, help me find myself there in that where that scares me

Because that’s where I’ll find you next time.

Next time that we meet again on this street for the first time. Again and again. And again.

All written content © 2012-2013 Helenna Santos-Levy

Las Vegas snow globe

You shake me and I fly
above the clouds in this curved round world.

Light reflecting on the covered glass desert.

Flying
blind above the sky
knees scraping along the care bear clouds of silver and gold flecked stars and hearts.
weightless wandering
floating
falling
grasping onto the plastic hands of Elvis.

We all go down eventually.

Hitting land
tumbling and running
arms outstretched
grasping at the beautiful steam of this mirage.

I know this place,
what it wants from me
organized chaos
and
repetition
in a single instant
it scares me still.
We never rest,
we are always moving,
organs pumping,
breath quivering.

I’ll forever be afraid of this giant curved womb.

I flounder among these hotels and casinos and giant palm trees.
Until you shake me again.
Uproot me.
And my nightmare begins once more.

Me
your miniature Las Vegas Showgirl
in plastic sequin
a plastic queen in
your perfect plastic world.

 All written content © 2012 Helenna Santos-Levy

nights with Leonard

There were those times
when Leonard Cohen and I
would sit together on a Sunday evening by the fire
and swoon to each other over a glass of shiraz.

He would to speak to me in flickering words
about sex
and coffee
and you.

He spoke of the lovers in the house knowing only of each other.

Now I
(a voyeur to this old encounter)
begin to cry.

It’s no longer him speaking to me.

It’s you.
under the covers
late at night
in our bed

QUICKLY

before the light comes up before the alarm goes off before the cat bites at your toes and runs circles round your head

You take me there to Cohen’s room,
to his lovers,
to his lips.

And kissing you feels just as sweet,
the bitter sweat on your ivory skin.

Until the wine is sipped .
each
drop
dry,

each

novella.

 All written content © 2012 Helenna Santos-Levy

down town

what is there to learn from the everyday
from the Grind?
walking beside each other
not smelling the desperate hopeless stench
of the businessman on the corner
waiting for green
for Go.
Mothers, Strippers, Lovers, Killers
everyone trying to get by
walk don’t walk
caught at a perpetual yellow light
in traffic
needing to be somewhere by 3pm
NOW. LATE.
Sisyphus on the mountain.
Where does all of the time go?
Time, square. Here or There.
all the same in the corporate church
selling sanctuary for less
Air Bags Included.

 All written content © 2012 Helenna Santos-Levy

the artists

Jim Morrison once said,
“We could plan a murder, or start a religion.”

Our volatile, volatile minds.

Volcanic activity erupting under the surface.
White-ashed shadows
mixing the meaning of black and white,
like stone cold monuments
shielding the dark from the sun.

But we are also doves of anarchy,
and clowns of shifting perception.
We see the other side, the eclipse,
the paralleled paradox of now,
and show it to the masses, the soldiers, the they.

Because, “I am he as you are he as you are me and we are all together.”
The creators, the lovers, the dreamers, the perceivers,

the eyes.

 All written content © 2012 Helenna Santos-Levy

where grey goose flows like water

sitting at LAX she is at a crossroads

Los Angeles. Lost Angels.

glitz, glamour, sun, surf,
big boobs,
small dogs,
fast cars,
fast women,
grey goose, angels, and champagne.

she has learned none of it
none of it
is real

what is this extreme severing
like a face lift without anesthesia
liposuction gone wrong

just a dark, dark shadow
please let her be white and blonde, tall and important

US Weekly worthy. Vain at Vanity Fair.
high heels, sunglasses, necklaces so perfect
perfect, perfect dolls
rock stars like living candy bars

tears welling up, waiting for the plane,
she looks to the end of the flat, paved, world
roads with scholars
doing magic tricks
here in the flicks
fake flickering wicks of ecstasy

a young woman’s lost and found
a carousel of sorts
playgrounds for her pains

where grey goose flows like water, like lava,
the purifier, for the pain inside of her

flying her far, far away

All written content © 2012-2013 Helenna Santos-Levy