Thursday, December 17, 2009
The Rock Star’s Son
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
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
Saturday, November 21, 2009
Tudor Style House
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
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
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
Saturday, June 20, 2009
Shadow Creek Road
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
Kicking, screaming and generally pissed off.
32 years…Not much has changed.
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
unwritten
( 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
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
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
and i realized that
- i like people who believe stillness has soul
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