Thursday, December 17, 2009

The Rock Star’s Son

Sitting on the dock of the bed,
The wind contains me from your open French doors
(the opposite of my fire)

Next to you, Picture windows framed above
Free against the Colorado night sky...
Starry mountain high

We shake our butts nature nude
Skin on skin
Rustling Aspens just starting to Crisp
A musical soundtrack for our giggles
And the lottery we’ve supposedly won
Though

I still question if I could be enough
Or if you are
Or if or if or if...

We pass out.
And despite myself, I dream
( you are conspicuously missing,
though your hand rests gently on my thigh)

Instead, I am soaring through those trees
Above it all and onto the night sky

Like a Chagall Angel

Ready to blow a trumpet, blast it loud
Charging Gabriel
So strong Michael drops his sword
And Azrael wakes the dead.

I look back at you, us
Sleeping

And crave that slumber
Crave what is to come

So I climb back into my skin
With hope for a me, honest to me
For once.

Monday, December 7, 2009

Heartache and Candy

I never thought when we chose towels,
rather I chose towels and you the house with the garage,
purposing our most purposeful roles

...I never thought that I would be here standing behind myself right now in a mirror
looking at the tile in my new place
My new place

and thinking, how could there have been this foresight?
actually how could there Not have been this foresight?
Why do these towels match this bathroom,
when they never did ours?

and that lollipop silk nighty, the pink i was so sure of
the luna de miel colored syrup proportioned in perfect complex measure
madonna and whore, the one you didn't understand

It too matches this space

So who were we when we made the us decision?
because it certainly is not us now.

Hypothetical Jive

This door is marked private, If I let you in Where will you stash your ink-stained sin It could be small dogs barking into caves Brave, I hear that motive rumble motorcade Invective, stunning and worthy of a wink Sink into me honest I’ll let you know what I think

Saturday, November 21, 2009

Tudor Style House

He stands there 
Completely unattainable to me
Happy and gay
The only one I'll ever love
So I don't have to...

But truth be told
He is not gay
And I am not a lover,
Just rejection phobic

Thursday, November 19, 2009

Whiskey Hand

Proletariat moonshiner, lost in scandal’s rock solid breast
Waiting for something lucky to pass your way
Waxing jovial, mixing publican
Bootleggin Tempter

Your eyes dance across lies,
Open tip jar laughing

You make lovers wary, crush tears to ice
And rouse weak mean brave,
Hero to toilers and hustlers alike

But when the crowd erodes
And fluorescent sins rise, making way for broom, mop
It’s your chapped hands and sullen mouth I crave

Against my breasts and thighs

Tuesday, August 18, 2009

denied

Silver shadows stalk in stillness.
what is closed yields.
and i feel you there,
at the crux
soiled stones washed free in wind and rain...

(the brook bubbling like the lava
that heats it deep within.)

My leg still curves across your body
in dreams contained, frozen Tupperware solid

and the trees whisper,
"we peaked through your windows that night."
taunting, deliberate leaves shaking their laughter at our folly.

Saturday, August 8, 2009

cinderella's flip flops

The danger of running in shoes that don't give you solid footing is that you could trip. But to trip is to stumble upon something new and leaving one shoe behind isn't all that bad if the someone who finds and returns that flipped flop, your grounding, is yourself.

Saturday, June 20, 2009

Shadow Creek Road

The current is strong for this time of year,
and rain keeps falling,

grass no longer thirsts but glistens
drunk, vivid and erect

hopeful.

So I turn down that road again,
the one with the dirt path and charm
-->hoping for a covered bridge, open-ended shelter

But my selfish fingers u-turn, wheels spin tires
and mud my eyes.

As a traveler I have lost my passport here
more than once before.
the moon scrapes tides, our boats drift sarcastically...
and in these years when the sky is generous
so
am
i

No matter.

when the sun shows his high yellow face again
he will ask for my hand

and bridges will cease their magical allure
and dying grass will yield to fresh, less haughty seed.

Monday, June 15, 2009

My life, a poem

Apparently the parents say it took 63 hours for me to enter this world,

Kicking, screaming and generally pissed off.

32 years…Not much has changed.

Tuesday, April 28, 2009

unwritten

hmm. all the words un-worked, the ink left in my pen
( the ones before type
before pixelated word replaced indigo altogether)
it turns out that
i can't reconcile
how making them appear on a page can be so easy
but pressing them into hearts and minds Hercules' lot.

sometimes, as they spill from tongues and fingers
it all chokes
midway through thought, partially in phrases, separated in sentences

or worse
the block appears.

the slow one, the mythical beast creeps in for some when happy,
having found peace.
lurking only in melancholic prayers to lost lovers and sorely missed demons

for others in the moments when mist clears,
their mountains visible from even the flattest crests, lovers separated by oceans
and time zones reunited
then they write beauty, lyric, harp songs:
exalted poetry

but what of the time between emotion
when there is nothing to pour, the honey well dry
but still sweet, dewy potential

it's in those times i wonder where the soul's light switch
really dwells,
when waiting for inspiration

Thursday, April 23, 2009

Cat

i remember when you were a kitten!
big eyes, pointy ears, round-headed tiny body caged with other species waiting to be picked by yet another species...

you crawled and careened up my arm,
on foreign shoulder perched like birds you would one day hunt
a crackling shadow meowing behind curtain drawn windows
in front of speckled apartment glass.
(our bigger, safer cage.)

you wore socks then,
white socks we would never be able to remove.
you were hungry for my lap, hungry to be stroked,
just plain hungry.

now they tell me you are older than i
with cunning instincts given to a maturity i may never know,

you shed ferociously all over my most stunning black
and puke in hidden corners mocking mops, buckets, vacuums.

your eyes watch me nude here wondering why i take off my fur just to put it back on again and again.

i love them those almond grass eyes, wet pink nose, dusty white socks...
the fact that you never beg
soft purr sleep above my head
treating me to your presence when i command it least.

you are solitary warmth, my imaginary friend come to life,
my choice
a creature of whim, fancy, fickle-tude...
semi-vicious beast shaped domestic subjugated to my care.
and when you die, as all things do,
i will erect a shrine to you in my head greater than the sphinx.

dance party usa


Music swirls Chariots staccato-stuck in metal spokes Soul samba Foxy trot, foxy lady Skinny dipping rhythm Submerged, drowned sorrow Of Lovers since evaporated, poof Another sounds Instruments stray from turntables Unforgiving, syncopated Like droplets in still water Dance! Arms crane surfing imaginary wind tunnels Contracted convulsions surround each other Flower petals bursting from Hidden stem within The exotic circle Sabroso, fluid And just when you think: Explode! Everything, everywhere, everyone is Re-leashed.

Playing Tag


Black dress

Label scratchy, rough.

I ask him: use these scissors

Sharp end facing me

Like kindergarten.

He reaches across my fist

takes them blade end first

pressing dull metal edges against skin,

indenting my palm,

sliding shears through yielding fingers.

Tactile punishment

For the wrong question…

He disregards the tool.

Eyes grazing me, squinted stare,

Placing one hand on my shoulder, (suggests the turn)

spinning me 'round

barely brushing hair above collar

holding,

Sliding his other hand

down my neck, inside

the black dress

he tears the label swiftly, leaving no blemish.

And without peering back

I exit the room, stage left,

as if nothing really happened.

Saturday, April 18, 2009

Excuse Me, Did You Catch His Name

A baseball player died today
and i realized that
  • i like people who believe stillness has soul
the inanimate
shaped by hand,
even mechanized-->the machine immortal too
in its mortal creation

This picther, he talked to the baseball
cushioned it with recognition, words, love
in a soft leather glove

And while my glass of wine
has no place on the stitched lips of a baseball
(or sad smile of a child's well-worn-soft-cuddle bear)
I know that somehow,
these "its"
they know as well as we
to mourn mortality